Rat or Maus?

There's an octopus lamp in here--you know, with the bulbs on bendy stalks. It looks like a brain-sucking machine. Every time I get jammed on my novel, I look up at that thing, and think about sticking my head in it. I tidied up before I got started, so there'd be no distractions, but the lack of clutter only draws attention to the lamp.

Frits said my talent is not for fiction, but for describing the world as I see it. Only, I don't fancy writing a memoir. Your life gets all up for scrutiny, then. Me, I've got living relatives--if my name goes through the mud, so does theirs. Nevertheless, I haven't ignored the comment. I've written boring fiction, in the past: fiction where it says what happens, but not much about the people involved. It wasn't that I didn't describe the characters--it was more like they weren't there at all. They were interchangeable. They were...they were props. What a strange way to write. What was I thinking? I must have been in a hurry, or something.

Maybe this is better--this is Arthur in his office, swiveling around on his chair and worrying about some biohazard tubs he's stashed under a jacket:

He put his feet down, stopping the chair. The jacket-lump had sprouted a pseudopod, courtesy of the declining sun. Its shadow was climbing his ankles. No wonder he couldn't concentrate. How many nights had he sat here, he wondered, with the shadow of infestation crawling up his back? He scratched furiously at the base of his skull. There was an itch under his skin. It had been there since his basement excursion. Something must have bitten him--or maybe it was an allergy. It was worst at the junction of spine and skull, but it was spreading fast. It was crawling down his neck, and radiating across his scalp. It...it....

There was a burst of static from the intercom, and Sherry's voice piped in. "I'm about to head out, Mr. Goldman. You need anything before I go?"

Arthur stopped scratching. His breathing had gone a little ragged. He took a big gulp of air before replying. "Actually, there was something," he said. "I'd almost forgotten."

"Yes?"

"Schenck brought a package of biohazard tubs this afternoon. He wanted me to leave them with security, in case they saw any, uh--" Arthur hesitated. He didn't want to discuss rat turds with Sherry.

"Any evidence of rats?" she supplied.

"Exactly. Would you mind dropping them by the security guard on your way down?"

"Sure. I'll be right in." The intercom light blipped off. Arthur lifted his jacket off the tubs (carefully, between thumb and forefinger), and hung it on the back of the door.

I think it's better. Who knows? I don't know. That reminds me: I should look up the difference between a panic attack and simple nerves. Arthur isn't that far gone yet, but the rats are beginning to bother him. Speaking of which, I should've used Goldman for Howard's last name, and saved Glassman for Arthur, because of the way he goes to pieces in the end. If I'd known, back in March, that I'd be writing this novel, I'd have done just that. Maybe I should change his name to...to Spiegelman. Wait, no. Then, his name would be Art Spiegelman, like the guy who wrote Maus. What a pain. There's too much planning involved with these things.

I reached twenty thousand words today. It's also Wednesday, which is hump day: the middle of the week. Once you get past Wednesday, the worst is over. Not that I hate writing novels, or anything. I don't. In fact, when I've finished this one, I mean to write another. I'm just tired, is all. I've been putting in eight hours a day, instead of the five I'd initially intended, and my ordinary job on top of that. I spend the first few hours on the novel--sometimes it takes ages to coax out two thousand words, so I like to get that out of the way first. Then, I write any old thing for a while, just for practice. Journal entries, for instance, and chase scenes; also, short stories, bad jokes, and silly poetry for PhaWRONGula. Then, for the last half hour or so, I read instructions on writing, in case I'm doing it wrong.

Yesterday, for instance, I wrote two thousand novelwords, a limerick, and a chase scene, and read two articles on punctuating dialogue. It turned out I already knew how to punctuate dialogue, but one can never be too certain. Maybe I should read an article on not being such a spaz. Ha, ha.

I also succumbed to temptation, last night, and stuck my head in the brain suck lamp:

Ssssslflflflfllllrrrrrrp!

On the subject of things that suck, I think my allergies are beginning to clear up. I only used ten milligrams of promethazine hydrochloride last night, and I haven't sneezed for at least an hour.