Tuesday, November 6, 2012

How To Juggle

I wish I knew how to juggle. Both the literal kind with balls or bean bags or bananas and the metaphorical kind with writing a new novel and keeping up with the first novel and cleaning the house and preparing meals and blogging and staying in touch with friends and snuggling and going for walks and sleeping.

Mostly right now I'm just struggling with keeping up with my first novel (Some Secrets Aren't Secrets) and my new November novel (Dare Devil).

The hard thing is that I'm trying to write 2,000 new words on Dare Devil every day while at the same time writing at least something on Secrets. It's hard. And mostly, I haven't been writing on Secrets because I've been getting going on Dare Devil. But I have a writing group who I'm supposed to submit to and meet with soon and I told them that I'm still going to send them segments of Secrets because I don't want to do any editing or get any critique on Dare Devil until I'm finished (in December).

Here I am trying to come up with more words on my first brilliant novel and still behind in my race to finish my second novel by the end of the month.

And, it seems, my main character wants to be a juggler, too. Here's his scene for the day:



“You got a package in the mail today,” mom says when I walk through the kitchen.
She points to a box on the counter.
“Awesome,” I say and I grab it and rip it open.
I found some juggling sticks online that are big on one end and tapered down on the other. I open the cupboard and grab a jar of peanut butter, leave the box on the counter and take my sticks out to the back yard.
I slather the each of big ends of the clubs with the peanut butter and start throwing them into the air. I do pretty good the first few rotations, but then I flip one of the clubs a little too fast and the peanut butter end smacks into my palm. I wipe my hand on my pants.
“What the hell are you doing?” Zach says behind me.
I turn around and see him slide the back door closed then jump down the steps toward me.
“I’m juggling,” I say as I throw the sticks up again to start a new round.
“Is that for when you get hungry?” He asks.
“Duh. I’m a growing boy. Any physical activity makes me hungry as hell,” I say.
“Really, though. Why the peanut butter?”
“It’s so I don’t fuck up and grab the wrong end.” I flip the clubs end to end, catching every one and flipping them back up again. “Just wait until those ends are on fire,” I say.
“Hmm. Never had flaming peanut butter before. Is it good?”
“You can bet your balls it is,” I say. “Fuck!” The end of my third club hits my hand and I don’t wrap my fingers around it before it slams down on my foot, peanut butter side down. I drop the other two clubs, one of which slides down my pants.
“Ha ha ha. This performance is worth every penny I paid to get in,” Zach says and keeps laughing.  
“Oh shut up.” I grab one of the clubs and smear the peanut butter on his face. “You’ll see. Who doesn’t like a flaming juggler?”
“Ah. Sick, man.” He wipes his face on the shoulder of his t-shirt. “So, you’re going to set yourself on fire, now? That would be pretty damn cool.” He laughs again.
“Maybe I’ll set you on fire.” I shove his shoulder—the one without the peanut butter. 
He comes back at me and shoves my shoulder. I push him in the chest. He dives at me and throws his arms around my waist, tackling me to the ground. We wrestle until he pins me, like always.
“Ha! Fool. Pick fights with me and I’ll show you who’s boss,” he says.
“Get off me,” I say. “Let’s go to the skate park.” 

I sure wish I knew how to juggle.

1380 words so far--and still counting.

Write on!

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