After purchasing my well-deserved coffee, I found my writing spot taken over by people participating in an archaic gathering known as a “meeting.” I don’t know who these people think they are, but I was sure that after I explained my noble purpose and my need of the cushy chairs that they, all three hundred of them, would disperse so that I could begin typing in my serene, familiar environment. I started in on the advantages of having another best-selling author not only on this earth, but in their very backyard. I followed that up with a description of the good I would be doing: my promise to donate not less than a quarter of a percent of my earnings to charity; my introduction to young, impressionable readers the word “drivel” and my multiple meaning explanation of “interesting”; the happiness and cheer I would spread to all those around me by not being forced to wake up early on mornings. As a finale, as my honey words flung from my thickening tongue, I raised the specter of the world without a voice such as mine—a sad, tired world denied my indomitable spirit. After a roaring applause, the audience settled down as security escorted me out the door. In retrospect, I’m sure the audience would have objected more forcefully to security’s threatening shooing motions if they realized how such an interruption would hurt my writing and increase the risk of my not meeting the writing goal for the day. There are just some things that are more important than meetings. I guess they’ll have to learn that the hard way.

I’m hoping that this change in venue will result in some good. I’ve been dragging my feet the last few days writing. I have to remind myself (yet again) that these musings are just a writing exercise. Even the dreaded Marathon is nothing but a (debatably) useful exercise. I’m not going to take either seriously and I’m going to try to return to my happy-go-lucky writing style. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. My style has never been happy-go-lucky, but I have had moments of madness and depth (at least deep for a madman). The funny part about these exercises is that I enjoy them. It goes without saying that I enjoy the complaining part (I am a born complainer, or whiner, as I’ve just been told). But even the word count, the large paragraphs, the endless discussion of things I know nothing about, I’m enjoying all of it. If anything, I’d like to write more every day, not less. If my writing is at all meaningful, then it’s all for the better. If not, I can accept its inadequacies as long as I can continue my output. I can’t vouch for my reader(s), though.

I moved yet again, this time to a squishy chair in the middle of the hallway. The seats are comfortable and the people watching are unmatched. I’m going to forget about the Pink Sweater for today and just have fun with something. This is inline with Chuck’s posited theory yesterday. He said, “Has it ever occurred to you that it might actually be easier to write fiction than to keep up with this prewriting? You are currently engaging in one of my favorite pastimes: metawriting. I think it is entirely possible that your brain just wants to shift into gear and take off rather than just continuously rev its engine.” (And, yes, I will count Chuck’s words, and my defense of using his words, toward my daily word count.) To that end, I’m going to jump into some fictional writing. In keeping with the spirit of Nanowrimo, I will not write a part of my The Pink Sweater. All competitors are supposed to start November with a clean slate with nothing written on it (planning or “metawriting,” as Chuck calls it, does not count. You’re allowed to plan, outline, sketch, create characters, etc—everything but writing a single fictional word). That leaves me with 1,400 fictional words to write. Let’s see if this is easier or harder than this inane story planning.

Radio Shack has a smell. The electronics stacked against the walls give off an odor, an aged, airy fragrance that one finds clinging to unwashed bodies—particularly those that spend too much time in dark places with boxes of Doritos and dice games. Steven loved that smell. In exchange for a visit to Radio Shack, he would walk for hours through the clothing-infested stores of the mall. While he kept his chin up and complaints to the absolute minimum in keeping with his self-imposed sarcastic persona, his mother and sister would invariably surrender to his impatience. They would drop him off at Radio Shack with a bag of freshly baked, if store bought, cookies and promise to return with enough left in the pocketbook to buy him whatever gadget he absolutely needed for his continued survival, at least for that day.

The artificial ding sounded as Steven tripped the door sensor. He crossed into the store and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of belonging. He imagined the great buffalo felt this way when they joined their herds in migrations. He was with people of his own breed; people who spoke about megahertz and bits and sprites programming and kilobytes. They shared a language unknown to those outside of the herd. It would be many years before the rest of the population would understand any of their secret speech. For now, his group was exclusive, and the outsiders hemmed and hawed and stared with vacant faces at the mere mention of such words as “computer.”

Radio Shack was hidden in the corner of the mall, tucked in tight next to the giant Macy’s. The red, backlit letters outshone the department store’s sign but drew few people from the crowds that packed through the single door into Macy’s. Steven barely noticed his mother and sister wave before they turned and disappeared into the throngs of holiday shoppers. He placed the bag of warm cookies on the counter with the cash register and nodded a subdued greeting to the salesman. He was playing it cool. He didn’t want to seem too eager and excited, but he didn’t want to seem apathetic. He had learned that a slight upward nod sent the right message.

“Hey, kid,” Todd said from behind the cash register. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He reached for the bag across the counter and plunked an entire cookie into his mouth. Steven thought Todd’s mouth was too big for his small head. He resisted suggesting that Todd grow out his hair to disguise the disproportionateness—those just weren’t things that members of this herd spoke about.

Steven examined the phones lining the wall next to the register, testing out the receivers for weight and balance, enjoying the cold feeling of newly molded plastic in his hand. “My sister’s prom is next week and she’s buying her third dress. I’m not sure what was wrong with the first two, but I’m sure whatever it was, this new one will have the same problems.”

“That’s what these girls do. They’re consumers. They buy and buy all the crap that the magazine-infested fashion industry puts out with the feeble hope that they will be a little more like the girls they plaster on every billboard and shiny advertisement and television show. If they would just accept that they’re never going to be that cool or that good looking, then they’d probably be happier. For people like me and you, though, we don’t have to worry about these things. We’re naturals. The women crawl all over me, if you know what I mean.” Todd straightened his brown, clip-on tie, causing the top button of his shirt to pop off. He cursed, shaking the tie, and looked nervously around to see if any customers were watching. The store was empty except for an older man examining a stack of extension cords. He was oblivious to Todd and Steven, weighing in one hand a brown three-foot, two-pronged cord, against a yellow three-foot, three-pronged cord. Steven had seen people like him before in the supermarket. They would study cartons of spaghetti trying to determine which one had the most spaghetti sticks for the cheapest price. Todd slipped the tie into the drawer and grabbed another cookie.

“Is Neil working today?” Steven said. While Todd knew about everything there was to know about the electronic devices that Radio Shack sold, it was Neil who knew about the computer devices. Steven was desperate to buy the new Tandy’s Color Computer II. The last time he was in the store, Neil had showed him the specification sheet, and they had both drooled over the increased power and speed. Steven was anxious to find out if the computers had been delivered. He wasn’t sure if his mother would buy him the computer today, but he was sure that she would buy one for Hanukkah, which was only a week away. He just hoped she didn’t give him one piece of the computer each day for eight days like she did two years before when she had bought him the first Color Computer. He had tried to explain to her that he couldn’t “play” with the computer’s pieces separately, that they had to all be put together for him to do anything with it. But she would hear nothing of it. She was all about tradition, and that meant eight gifts over eight days. When she started the first two days with the empty computer boxes, he knew he was in for a very long week.

“Nah. Neil’s off today. I saw him around the mall earlier. He was finishing some holiday shopping or what not. That kid wastes too much money on gifts for his girlfriend. As I keep telling him, if he buys her too much junk he’ll spoil her for all her future boyfriends. I wouldn’t touch her with a fifteen-foot pole after Neil was through with her. Not that I would want her, mind you. She’s just not my type. I like them tall and lithe. She’s too short for my tastes. I say when you have choices like we do, why end up with a dead fish. You know what I mean.”

Steven nodded with enjoyment. He had watched the way Todd ogled Samantha when she and Neil weren’t looking. Steven had a notion that Todd would like to touch her with a pole much shorter than fifteen feet, but he kept it to himself. Neil will have a laugh about this, though. Even though Neil was five years older than Steven, Neil treated him as an equal, whether they spoke about computers, jobs, or girls.

The entry chimed and Neil and Samantha walked into the store. Samantha held a large, wrapped box with a red ribbon tied to its top. She wore a large, green coat that flared at the bottom, making it look like she was wearing a Christmas tree. “What’s this about dead fish?” Neil asked.

Todd blushed and murmured something that they couldn’t hear. He walked over to the customer in the store, who was still lifting and lowering the two cords in his hands, as if he could determine their value from their weight. “Yes, both will work with your television,” Todd said, trying unsuccessfully not to look back in Neil’s direction.

Neil took a cookie out of the bag and bit into it. Samantha gave a small, high-pitched screech and Neil looked back toward her. She held out her hand and Neil place the leftover half on her palm. She smiled and ate the cookie. With a mischievous grin she went over to where Todd spoke with the customer and stood behind the customer. She scribbled notes in a small pad. Todd unsuccessfully tried to avoid looking at her, but she stood writing furiously.

“Dead fish, huh,” Neil said, eating another cookie from the bag. “I’d kick his ass myself, but I think Samantha has something much more interesting in store for him. Now, did I mention we have some shiny new toys in the back? I haven’t even unpacked them for the display. I was waiting for a certain person with exceptional computer skills to give me a hand.”

Word count: 2,015; writing time: 1.5 hours; caffeination: tall mocha; after minor editing: 2,072.