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For what it was worth, the day at least turned into somewhat of a success by figuring out what tone the story needs to take.  What began as a serious exploration of solitude seems fated to become a farce about a ghost, some bones, and a man’s search for something he can’t quite put his finger on.  Sounds like just about everything I’ve ever written, come to think of it, so there you go.  Who says there isn’t comfort in falling upon a familiar sword?

The month went by without me having a clue where this was going, but after today I finally have some ambition to put together an outline, giving this thing a little bit of direction.  Direction is good.  Beginning, middle, end, and all that nonsense.

Now, to figure out the tasks that Mr. Cooper’s ghost needs accomplished.  Unfulfilled dreams of the dead?  We’ll see.

Today the story’s hermit took a shift, becoming not the person telling the story, but rather the dead Mr. Cooper.  You remember the ghost trapped in the jar, don’t you?  Turns out, it’s Mr. Cooper.

Here we have Mr. Cooper’s ghost striking up a bargain with me, which will lead to some information about the how, when, why, and where of the bones being carried up to the house by the dog.  A little bit of mystery begins to unfold.  Keep in mind that it has already been revealed that the ghost can read my mind.  When I’m in the same room, at least.

How about a rough draft excerpt?

“I’ll tell you why I took myself away from people, but if I’m going to do that, you’re going to have to do some things for me first,” the ghost said.  “There’s a lot a person can do here on this side of things, but what I need done isn’t one of them.”

It wasn’t so much what he was saying, but just the idea of it that had me worried.  There was no telling what kind of things a ghost might need done.  Revenge was the first thing that came to mind.  Help righting some wrong that he now had no control over.  I wasn’t sure I was up for revenge.  Revenge was more of a follow-through activity then anything.  Follow-though and maybe compulsive.  I’d never been any good at either one of those things.

“It’s nothing like that.  Listen, if you do the things that I tell you to do, and you do them the way that I tell you to do them, then nothing bad is going to happen.”

“Bad?  What do you mean bad?”

“Don’t worry about that.  Now, do you want to know why I went off by myself or don’t you?”

“You already know my answer, don’t you?”

“If you didn’t already know it, I couldn’t know it, so what’s that say to you?”

“I think it says you’re screwing with my head.”

“At least brings up the question of who’s screwing who?  Which, I might add, always has been a very good question.  So, what’s it going to be?”

“You already know I need to find out.”

It was true.  I wasn’t sure what the ghost was going to ask of me, but now that I’d set my mind on finding out what had driven him to become a hermit, it certainly couldn’t be any worse then not knowing the answers to my questions.  I hated not knowing, even if it was something as stupid as this.  What could it possibly matter, that some ghost calling himself Mr. Cooper had withdrawn from the world around him until he eventually just disappeared?  What could it matter to me?

“You wouldn’t have trapped me in this pickle jar if it hadn’t mattered now, would you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Besides, it’ll be worth it.  You’ll like the answers.”

“Answers?  How many answers are there?  I just want to know why you left, that’s all.  Why you went off all alone.”

“So you’ll do it then?  You’ll do what I ask?  No matter what?”

“I guess.” I was still worried about what he might ask.  Who knew?  Maybe he did want revenge and was just hiding the fact.  Revenge against me, for example, for trapping him in the jar in the first place.

“You’re just going to have to trust me on this one,” the ghost said.  “You can do that, can’t you?  I’m just a voice, after all, trapped in a pickle jar.  What kind of trouble do you think I could actually cause?”

“I don’t know.  That’s what I’m worried about.”

“If I were you, I’d be worried about getting some good sleep tonight.  You’ve got a big morning ahead of you.”

“I do.”

“Yes, you do.  Now, go let the dog in.  He’s ready for bed.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Trust me.  He’s ready.”

Sure enough.  When I got to the backdoor, the dog was staring in, his wet nose pushed to the glass.  I turned the knob and he padded in, plopping down in front of the fire.

“Now get some sleep,” came the muffled voice of Mr. Cooper from the back room.  “We’ve all got a really big day tomorrow.”

The dog seemed to be already asleep.  Maybe the ghost did know something I didn’t.  Certainly understood the dog better.

Today is the all day NaNo write-in, and even though I am hopelessly behind on my word count - reaching the goal by the deadline has become an impossibility - I still decided to attend, if anything, just to pull myself from the house for an afternoon. 

I’m still working on a way to get rolling, and lately have been falling to Meatyard images to jump start my brain.

I’ve decided to give speed writing a try for a bit.  No thinking or second guessing.  No going back.  No editing.  No plan, even, of where it is the writing is supposed to be going.

In other words, desperation writing.  Time to crank out some words and get this baby up to speed.  Maybe some dialogue.

360 words whip by.  Kenneth and the hermit, continuing their conversation, following last week’s conversation that was taking place about loneliness.  I think that’s what it was about.  It’s been awhile.

The hermit’s memory wasn’t so good any more, and he knew that he forgot more things then he remembered.  It came along with the territory, he supposed.  Getting old, withdrawing inside yourself, falling back on old, more stable memories then the ones that came at you so fast these days.  It was impossible, really, the pace of the world.  At least in the hermit’s mind.  How could anyone remember anything at all, with it all coming at you so fast?  Impossible.  That was his opinion on memory.  Impossible.

“I honestly don’t see how you remember so many things,” the hermit said.  “All these memories of the farm.  Your father, your mother, the people that worked there.  How can you remember faces that you haven’t seen in so long?  How long has it been, say, since you played with that little boy on the farm?  Fifty years?”

“Longer then that.  Sixty years, at least.  No, seventy.  I would have been about seven or eight, so about seventy-three years.”

The hermit hadn’t given much thought to Kenneth’s age.  It hadn’t even crossed his mind, or at least if it had, he didn’t recall.  But eighty?  He certainly hadn’t thought of Kenneth as eighty.  He’d imagined him more around the age of his own father.  Sixty-five, maybe seventy tops.

“You’re older then I thought,” the hermit said.

“I have the same problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m older then I thought, too.” The two of them laughed.

“I didn’t mean to change the subject,” the hermit said.

“Forget it.  Last thing the world needs is another old man going on and on ‘bout being lonely.”

“I don’t know.  Might be that’s exactly what the world could use a bit more of.”

“Ha.  Obviously you haven’t spent much time down at the home.  You should stop by sometime.  Plenty of people down there, going on about being lonely.  They might not put it into quite those words, but they’re saying it, all the same.  Going on and on, all the time.”

“I imagine you’re right.”

“Oh, I’m right.  So much talk going on in that place man can’t hear himself think above the noise.”

360 words in 15 minutes.  Let’s give this storm a Category 1 rating.