For the last seven years I’ve participated in the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in the month of November. Every year, I’ve set myself a goal to write a novel of 50,000 words or more and every year I’ve finished early. This year was no different, except that I finished my 50,000 words by November 7. This is unprecedented. The novel was really finished by November 5, but I didn’t have 50k words and it took me two more days of writing to get to the limit in order to “win” my NaNo challenge.
Since I finished so early, my buddy, Christine Buchner, and several other helpful souls decided I needed more to do and gave me another challenge, take their random ideas and put them into a story. I might finish it by the end of November, I might not, but so far I am 22,413 words in and finding it a fun experiment.
The starting elements were:
Someone with the name Morgan—Barbara Ehrentreu
A Frisbee—Karen Vaughan
An Asian person—Devika Fernando
An ability to telepathically communicate with fish in an aquarium—Christine Buchner
Below is an excerpt from chapter one of Whose Book Is It Anyway?
Whose Book Is It Anyway?
Inspired by the authors and occupants of The Secret Garden of Thoughts
November 7, 2014
“Apple Bunnies,” I swore softly as I tried to shave without cutting myself. “FudgeTarts! Oh, hell! Dammit!” I nicked myself a couple times. The razor was super dull, which tells me that Grace had probably used it on her legs.
I’m really trying to cut back, truly, I am, but there are days when Fudge Tarts and Apple Bunnies simply don’t make the grade. I’ve done my best to eliminate the F-word, but it still pops up with alarming frequency. When I get really angry, there’s nothing more satisfying than setting off an F-bomb. Besides, it annoys my roommate and that’s the most satisfying of all, since she’s the one who usually makes me say it. Repeatedly, I might add. Loudly and with varying degrees of emphasis.
But today, I’m trying to be good. Today, we have company coming and I have go behave myself. I want them to like me—really like me—then maybe Grace will see me as something more than a roommate and more of a mate-mate.
Perhaps I should explain. My name is Duff Morgan. I’m 27, single, unattached and hot for my roommate who thinks that I’m only good for scrubbing the bathroom, completing the odd do it yourself project or opening jars. She does not see me as manly, marginally handsome or terribly interesting. I fell into her friend category right after she met me and I can’t seem to climb out no matter what I do.
Grace is gorgeous. Nearly six feet of woman, she’s built like a goddess. She’s got sun bleached blonde hair and dark brown eyes—like melted chocolate. Yeah—I’ve got it bad. I sound like a soppy chick flick.
One thing she does like about me, I’m six foot four. She can take me to parties as her escort and not tower over me in heels. I clean up pretty good. I have a couple suits and can manage to get through an evening without scratching inappropriately. I even know what fork to use with which course and how to taste wine. I know all this because Grace has taught me.
We’ve been roommates for the last three years. I’ve seen a lot of men come and go. Occasionally, there’s the asshole who needs a lesson in manners. Enter the six foot four roommate with big muscles and gorilla arms. I put on my crazy ex routine and run them off if they cause trouble. One guy was being super persistent. He wanted to do something kinky with a Frisbee. Never was entirely clear on what, but it upset Grace. I ran in, saved the day and got rid of lover boy. He left the Frisbee. I had it mounted in a shadow box for her last birthday.
I’m not sure exactly when I fell in love with Grace, because I think it was immediately. But I remember the day she put me in the friendship box and locked the lid. It was November 7, 2011. We’d been sharing a house for nearly six months. Her boyfriend, a perpetual asshole, had been cheating on her—pretty much from day one, but would she listen? No. It took finding them together, in my room, for her to believe that he was a douchebag who needed a beat down. It was her birthday party and the jerk had the balls to take another woman to bed—my bed! I still haven’t forgiven him. I burned the sheets. I liked those sheets.
The party ended soon after that and I was left to comfort Grace. I got her favorite ice cream from the freezer (Phish Food), put on Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (her favorite movie, which I hate) and sat down with a bottle of chocolate wine.
“Duff, you’re such a great guy,” she sniffled. “You’re the best friend a girl could have.”
My heart, understandably, sank to my size 16 feet. “You deserve the best, Grace. That guy wasn’t any good for you.”
“I know. I always pick the worst guys in the world!”
I couldn’t deny that she had a talent for it. Not that they were all bad, but the bad ones tended to out number the good.
“You need someone else to pick the man for you,” I suggested.
“I do! You could help me. You have a kind of radar for bad guys. You could steer me away from them and zero in on a good one.”
Yeah. Me. But did I say it? I did not. Why? I don’t know! I have no idea why I didn’t just open my mouth and tell her I loved her. Still haven’t done it three years later. Am I amazingly lame or what? But with that, I handed her the key to the friendship box, climbed in and helped her turn it in the lock.
© 2014 Dellani Oakes