In the cigar bar, time takes on it’s own dimension. In a cloud of smoke, I sit in my favorite chair: plush and comfy, within easy view of the bar, the front window, and the football game. A large glass table in front of me on which to prop my feet and set my computer. Cohiba and I spend many a happy evening in this bar, and we had engagement pictures taken here. It is not unusual for us to make friends over this table, meeting a varied assortment of people.
One night, some guys were in town from New York for the hockey game. They were a lot of fun, but one of them was clearly the designated drunk. We chatted for a bit about our respective towns, and then began to talk about our professions. They were fire fighters; members of the first graduating class post-9/11. I told them I was a drug and alcohol counselor, and the Designated Drunk looked at his friends, horrified: “This isn’t an intervention, is it?” It was too funny.
I’m working on my NaNoWriMo, making up for lost words over the past week. I’m completing PhD applications, and my novel is taking a back seat to that. I’ve already given myself permission to take two months: NaNoWriMoS. This has been a fantastic exercise in sticking to something I’m working on. I realize that I get bogged down in detail and revision after about 3,000 words and I never bang the whole story out.
Cohiba wants another cigar, and so it’s gonna be a longer might than I thought. Lets see if I can get some words on the book tonight.