It is not quite six o’clock on Saturday morning and I have just completed writing the novel I started two weeks ago for National Novel Writing Month. At 52,169 words, it is being generous to label this a novel but given the guidelines we followed, it is. A short novel. A long short story. Either way, it is complete and it feels good.

Before you ask, no, you are not going to be able to read it. This particular piece of work was not meant to be read by others, only to be written and read by me so that I could learn from it. And learn, I did.

I had no concept of what 50,000 words looked like.
According to the software I used, my 52,169 words would create a 132-page paperback. To put that into a measurement I could understand, I looked to two of my favorite short novels: Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck; and The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The first is only 107 pages; the second, 180 pages. I am honored to fit right there in between them, in quantity, if not in quality.

I had to write without editing.
When I write a blog post, I write hundreds more words than ever get published here. I tend to spew forth three and four page essays on the subject at hand and then spend hours editing and tweaking and deleting it down to a palatable chunk of words, hopefully not so large that people just sigh in disgust and mark it ‘read’ in their feed readers without at least skimming it.

The whole point of NaNoWriMo is to just put words on the screen, no editing allowed. It took me a while to find my internal editor switch and turn it off, but things went really well after that. It was nice to learn the joy of writing without continuous self-censorship. Apparently, I still know when I need that switch on because this post was about five paragraphs longer before hitting Publish.

I had to learn that storytelling is organic.
The novel I wrote was a story that had been rattling around in my head for years. I knew it backwards and forwards and inside out. I felt like I was cheating even writing it because it felt like I wasn’t writing, I was just taking dictation from my brain. But then, without even being aware of it, the story took its own turns in the telling. Characters were introduced, different situations were played out, decisions were reversed… all without prior thought or planning on my part. My fingers and brain were working together to tell the story as it should be told, not as my brain alone had been telling it for years. It was the closest thing to magic I had witnessed in quite a while. I want to write again just to experience that over and over.

I have to say the entire NaNoWriMo experience has been a positive one, even if there were a few angst-ridden moments, particularly at the beginning when I found it difficult to commit the first word to the screen. It did get better after that, once I built up my writing muscles, so to speak. I am fairly certain I will do it again. But I will not be waiting another year to write. In fact, I am going to do that now.

This weekend I had cause to travel back to the city in which I used to live. To give a bit of background, I lived there for 32 years and the last six months of that was spent commuting between my new condo here and my old job there, five days a week. The distance between the two cities is just around 90 minutes.

In other words, I should know this area of central Illinois well.

So, tell me, why was I unable to remember how to get back to my former hometown on Saturday? I knew there was a way to get there through the back roads, those unbeaten paths between small country villages, but for the life of me, I could not remember how to do it. I sat at the intersection in one small town for as long as I dared, staring at the road ahead, knowing that was the beginning of that back road journey but I could not remember the way. I was scared to move forward because I could not picture what came next. I did not think I would remember which landmark to look for, which country road was the right one to turn on to lead me toward my destination.

So instead of going straight, I turned right, went the familiar path, the one that would take me by my mother’s house, and if followed long enough, would take me to my father’s. From that road, I could find my way to familiar main thoroughfares and find my way to the place I used to live. It cost me 30 minutes on my journey but I felt more secure doing it.

*********************

Four hours later, I left my former hometown and started the journey back here, to the place I now live. I was traveling the way I had come when I saw the sign for an intersection ahead. Suddenly, I knew how to get here, using the formerly familiar back roads route. I turned right at the intersection, following the road through sleepy farming communities and dense wooded areas. The path unfolded in front of me as it did in my mind’s eye. I could see what lay ahead before I was upon it.

*********************

I have never subscribed to the notion that home is a place. Home to me is a feeling, one of contentment, security, love and warmth. I have looked my entire life for my home and only recently have felt like I may have found it. I will be able to live anywhere and be comfortable but that feeling of home will be carried with me, in my heart and in the relationships I form.

The road to home is not always familiar but it is there. You just have to find that intersection and turn; give your heart to someone and love. Then, you will find your way home.

I cannot believe I am even going to write this, let alone write it in a public forum, but in the interest of total honesty and wanting to get that silly cake picture moved down the page, I am going to. Are you ready?

I went to Wal-Mart today.

I know, I know. I have posted before about my loathing for Wal-Mart and how I would never grace its doors again but let me tell you what happened. I cannot justify it but at least I can give you the details.

Today started at 2:30am, as have most of the days in the past few weeks. To say my sleep schedule is off would be quite the understatement. Anyway, I was up at 2:30am and could not go to work until 6:30am. By 4am, I had cleaned the kitchen, gotten ready for work, and written in my journal. By 4:02am, I was climbing the walls.

Yes, it was 4:02am and I was already bored.

I thought about what else I could do to pass the time and considered more cleaning but I was already dressed in my work clothes and yeah, no. Then I considered more writing but I was not in the mood for that either. So I decided I would do my weekly grocery shopping, fill the gas tank, and run by the pharmacy before work. It should not be a problem to get all that done, especially since from the looks of things on the streets, I was the only one out and about.

I pulled up to my favorite supermarket, picked up my reusable tote bags, locked the vehicle and headed inside. Or, I should say, tried to head inside. The doors were locked. The lights were on, people were inside, but I was not allowed to enter. A very nice kid came and opened the door and said the store did not open until 6am. When did this happen? When did my 24/7 except for six hours overnight Sunday store begin closing at night?

I really need to get out more.

So there I was, getting close to 4:30am and no supermarket. I briefly thought about heading to East Peoria and picking up my pharmacy stuff and groceries all in one trip but when I tried to calculate the time it would take to drive there, and drive back, put everything away, and then drive back to Peoria for work… it just did not seem feasible or very eco-friendly. Since I was on the right side of town for the gas station, I decided to go ahead and stop there while I determined my next move. Driving to the gas station, I saw the Wal-Mart sign.

Of course. The evil giant never sleeps.

As I filled the tank with gasoline I fought with myself over whether or not I could actually go to Wal-Mart and purchase anything. It kind of made me feel sick. But sitting around for two hours waiting to go to work seemed pretty wasteful. I was torn. Finally, my need for effective time management overtook my personal mores and I went to Wal-Mart and did my food shopping.

I must say, if you ever want to experience Wal-Mart in its best light, going at 4:30am is probably as good as it gets. Or if you like scaring the bejeezus out of people, try wheeling a cart around the corner of an aisle where a stocker has been working alone for probably a good four hours and watch them jump out of their skins. And at 4:30am? You can do that on EVERY aisle. Good times.

The next time I do not know how to fill two hours in the morning, I will stick to writing. The only semi-proud moment from all of this was the fact that Wal-Mart did not even enter my mind until I saw the sign. But that is sort of like Winona saying she did not intend to shoplift until she saw the pretty clothes. WE ARE BOTH SICK.

Come back next week, when I will regale you with my experience of clubbing a baby seal and making it into a pot pie. I mean, honestly, who knows what I am capable of doing at this point?

Today marks the third anniversary of Reflecting. I have to be honest, some days it feels like a lot longer, but usually that is because I can barely remember a time before the friendships I have made here.

Thank you for visiting, for reading, and commenting. Your support and encouragement and commiseration have been invaluable. WIthout you, Reflecting would not have become such an important part of me.

Please, have a piece of cake. You have earned it!

And this allows me to cross off #64 from my 100 Things list: “Keep the same blog for at least three years.”

I heard an interesting story in a meeting this morning, which may or may not be true (the story, not the meeting), and if true, may or may not have happened at my company (again, the story, not the meeting). It is all very mysterious. In fact, picture wavy lines through this whole post, as if it were a dream sequence in a television program. Do it. I can’t afford special effects and you have perfectly good imaginations just rotting idling there. Thank you.

In the meeting (I know, this part is factual, but keep the wavy lines because they are kind of trippy, which is cool), we were discussing how to recognize and reward employees using non-financial means, because while we understand the importance of keeping people motivated and appreciating effort that goes above and beyond, it is hard to justify any cash expenditures these days. It sounds like a great idea, coming up with ways to recognize people without spending money, but there is always someone who can muck it up.

Cue the story (Which now that I think about it, is not about recognizing people with non-financial means at all so I don’t know why it was even told at the meeting. Don’t I feel stupid. Well, I have come too far to turn back now, so if you can imagine wavy lines, you can surely imagine this post has a coherent theme. Thank you again.)

And now, cue the story.

The story: An employee was soon to be celebrating a major service anniversary milestone (actual number of years withheld to protect the innocent, where innocent equals me.) (Stop laughing.) with the company. Even in our corporation, where people tend to stick around longer than body odor in a taxi cab, this was a very large number of years and a big deal. The manager of this employee did some background research into the employee’s work history and found that not only had this employee worked for the company for all those many years, this person had also always displayed a great work ethic and productivity level, and, the real kicker, had never missed a day of work due to illness.

Think of that. Decades (and decades) (See how I’m getting the point across without actually saying anything? ‘Tis a gift.) of work with only holidays and vacation days to look forward to. I don’t know about you but I don’t mind a nasty cold or minor flu bug now and then. It is a day or two off work and you lose five pounds. Win-win.

Anyway, the manager was very excited and wanted to have a very nice recognition ceremony (read: cake) (Great, now I want cake.) for this employee when the special day arrived. However, given that we understand human nature and that people do not have cookie-cutter personalities (Well, crap, now I want cookies. Way to go.), it is our practice to ask the employee what type of recognition, if any, they want. When the manager asked if the employee would like to have a special ceremony or party, this particular employee responded that it would be appreciated if no special fuss was made. This hardworking, dedicated employee would like to observe the anniversary of decades upon decades on the job as just another day.

Well, this was not good enough for the manager. All those years of unfailing devotion to the company deserved fanfare and hoopla and banners, oh my! When the employee unwittingly walked into the fanfare-hoopla-bannered ceremony, it was clearly visible that the whole spectacle was very uncomfortable (There may have been blanching or a nervous tic that developed, I’m not sure, that part of the story was fuzzy.) However, being a good corporate minion, the employee soldiered through the event, mustering a weak smile and lukewarm appreciation.

The next day, the employee called in sick.

Coincidence or silent revolt? Can it be called a coincidence when we all saw it coming? I think not.

You can dissolve the wavy lines now.

The moral of the story: Listen to people. When they tell you what they want, what they need, who they are, BELIEVE THEM. Someone else’s achievement or sorrow or special day is just that, someone else’s. It is never, not once, about you.

The sub-moral of the story: Gimme some cake. Or (read: and) cookies.