No worries, Gipper

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Some of my friends and relations have written me recently wondering if I had been bitten by a were-Liberal. Apparently, that's how it's passed on. That and sharing needles.
I'm beginning to worry about you, Ken. Are you feeling okay? First, there was the rant against the gay marriage amendment. Now you've posted your views about flag burning. And they're definitely leaning to the left rather than the right. What's next? Will you be writing fan letters to Bill Clinton?
Please, don't send the GOP Intervention Squad over to my house to redecorate in an elephant motif. I am still a card-carrying Republican, and a dyed-in-the-wool conservative. And as long as the former never contradicts with the latter, I'll keep sending my checks into RNC headquarters. Republicans (used to) believe in the supremacy of self-determination with a minimum of government interference. I'm not talking full blown Libertarianism here - I am still fond of the rule of law, and believe that society does benefit from a framework which keeps us all moving vaguely together in a generally positive direction. But I do believe that my position on the proposed flag burning amendment and gay marriage ban are wholly in keeping with that philosophy. The way I learned it, as long as I'm not kicking the nearest politician in the groin, or threatening my neighbor's prize cockatoo, the government should pretty much stay out of the business of telling me how to express myself. Particularly if I'm expressing my opinion about my government. Something about free speech. You know - that thing we enshrined in the Constitution. Hell, Charlton Heston tells me that being pissed at the government is why the Framers gave me the right to own a bazooka. And that doesn't begin to address trying to tell me who I can play slap-and-tickle with in my own bedroom. Admittedly, I learned all this in a public school, and we all know that they are the pawns of the Democratic party. But, truly, I am in little danger of joining the Cynthia McKinney fan club. I'm still the guy who's boyhood hero was Alex P. Keaton (know what the "P" stands for? I do) and not infrequently considered getting "I heart Ayn Rand" tattooed on some normally-clothed part of his body. Mostly, I just want to write my quasi-humorous stories about the Critter or crazy British people. But hey, the 'Groove is my soap box. Sometimes I get the urge to preach - Don't worry, though. It usually doesn't last. (Except when I re-read my tattered copy of Atlas Shrugged, when I'm completely unbearable for the duration, and I can only apologize in advance).
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Novel writing obsession: Part 2

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If you remember last year, both my Bride and I sign up for (inter)National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo for short. One of us won. One of us didn't. And for the last nine months, my Bride has taken every opportunity to remind me of my trouncing. Seriously. Any reminder of novels, or writing, or months, and she works it into the conversation:
Me: Hey - what do you want to eat for dinner tonight? Bride: Hmm. I think I'm in the mood for Chinese. Me: Do you want me to cook? Or would you like me to pick it up on the way home? Bride: Why don't you just pick it up on the way? And be sure to order a side of I kicked your ass in NaNoWriMo while you're at it! This year, I'm determined to win. Now all I need is a really good idea for a novel. Or a really bad idea that uses a lot of words. (Remember, it's quantity, not quality). After months where I couldn't bear to look at what I had written in my first entry, I have finally gone back and looked at what I banged out last November. I think it was a fairly decent core idea - my Bride and I were both writing the same story, from different first person perspectives. Loosely based on people and places we know, it was the story of a young family who moved from California to a small town in Appalachia after the death of the husband's grandmother. Basing on characters and areas we were familiar with gave us plenty of fodder for writing (at times, I didn't even bother changing the names of the participants. My mother, for example. I ask you: how the heck are you going to come up with a better name than Patsy Lavelle?) I share with you an excerpt of the story below. The first 20,000 words or so takes place in or around the funeral home, as Granny Louise had recently died:
"Here, Daddy. I got this for Matthew." Bernie appeared at my side, stick in one hand, and something dark in the other. She pushed whatever it was into the stroller's tray next to the her sleeping brother's bottle of juice, and stood proudly, confident that she was the most generous big sister in the world.

Florizel took one look at it and turned green. She jerked the stroller back fast and the lump of whatever it was fell off with a thud. "Bernie! That's not for playing with!"

I looked down at the black bundle at my feet. Apparently Bernadette had been playing with a dead bird for the last twenty minutes or so. Kids are great.

Florizel had already dug into the apparently bottomless bag of kid-gear we carried everywhere with us. I was confident that she could de-tox anything up to and including a Chernobyl-level even if called upon to do so. I grabbed Bernadette by the stick hand. "Let's leave the dead bird alone and go wash your hands, kiddo." I toed the bird to one side and out of the immediate child-arm-reach area. "I've got this one, Bing - I'll be back in a bit."

My wife hardly glanced up, except to see that I had removed the carcass from the danger zone. She had a forest of handi-wipes and a spray bottle I hadn't known was in the bag out and was dousing the stroller, the tray, and probably would start soon on our son, lest he have inadvertently touched the air around the carcass in his sleep. "Throw this out." She handed me the juice bottle as I walked away.

Bernadette looked at the bottle as we walked back towards the funeral home entrance. "Why does Mommy want you to throw that out, Daddy?"

"Because it's dirty now, honey."

"Because the bird got on it?"

"Yes honey. Dead things are dirty."

"Oh." She trailed her stick through the gravel. "Is Granny Louise dirty, Daddy?"

"Hmm? Oh! No, honey. Granny Louise isn't dirty. She took a bath, special."

"Oh. Ok."
So now I have three months to start thinking through this year's challenge. I'm willing to take a leap away from subjects and characters so close to home, but I'm stumped for ideas so far. If anyone out there has any notion, and isn't signing up for NaNoWriMo themselves (and I urge you to - what the heck? What have you got to lose, except a month of your time and a little bit of sanity?) - then write me and pass on your plot ideas, or a really good title, or something. But please don't tell my Bride. She's insufferable enough in her victory as it is.
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