My bookshelves talk to me.

Not in a creepy schizophrenic way. They don’t give me commands or tell me about the secret enemy’s movements. The news is usually good for that, so long as it isn’t Fox News. Fair and balanced my ass.

But, I digress.

It usually happens when I go to my fan, which is used every day regardless of season or indoors temperature save for when I leave the house. It rests near the window, which is right by the corner-curving shelves that contain the collections of my favored books. Some have been read many times. Some are even just display copies; the books by Stephen King that are too heavy to carry, that I have duplicates of in paperback. Some go unread, having drawn my eye before on some other shelf either from the many small and used retailers I frequent or from the big chain stores when the deals are too good to ignore or when the small places don’t cater to the need. I am fairly certain that software books and management/sales manuals would not have an industry were it not for the chains. No bibliophile truly wants them.

These tomes by both window and fan are the books that come to live with me. Sometimes they are hastily devoured, then shelved. Some simmer for a time before I can reach them. Others gain dust, either there as a reminder of why I shouldn’t impulse buy or simply because time or circumstance has caused me to put them on the back burner. At least one book had two chapters read but was shelved after reading them because I didn’t know if I had the stomach to follow through so grim and ghastly were those chapters. I do not know how I stomach that author sometimes, though he is one of my favorites. I wonder what is wrong with him frequently, and then ask myself why it is I continue to return to his well.

And as I pass these volumes, old and new alike, they whisper to me and draw my eyes. And soon I find a friend or companion for a time.

From there, we go everywhere together. The books jump from shelf to bag and we have our time in the sun. Sometimes I can’t help but carry more than one. As a reader I’ll admit to much capriciousness, and I sometimes do not know what I shall be in the mood for, so I carry backups. Sometimes I retreat to my e-reader which I reserve for books that I know I’ll never meet the author of or that I simply could not acquire through other means. Sometimes I know that ‘today is the day’ and that I will complete a book and simply must have a new book on hand when that one comes to its conclusion.

I refuse to be bored when such myriad options are available to entertain and inform me.

But, the recommendations almost always come from those shelves. Every book there I can tell you where I was when I came by it and why I picked it up. I know which are bargain books, which were rare finds, which ones were bequeathed, lent or gifted. Receipts in these books serve as bookmarks or confirmations of my own recollections. Books are the only items I have in my home to which eidetic memories are in place and my recollections are almost infallible in this respect.

And as I go to cycle the air with the fan, I take heed to the whispers. These are not the whispers of conspirators or malefactors, and if it is schizophrenia it is the most charitable and noble imaginary illness that keeps me informed and entertained in equal measure. I gladly submit myself to the rotting carcass of my brain if it be madness, and I will revel in insanity.

But I cannot bring myself to believe such a thing as a malady of the mind. Poe, King, Gibson, Tolkien, Rushkoff, Lao Tzu and Sanderson cannot be made to serve as villains.

I encourage others of a similar bent to consider these words and to listen for their own whispers. Even the tiniest shelf can speak to you, and the largest shelves have more refined chances to murmur and tempt your hands into perusing their contents.

Take the time to listen. You shan’t be disappointed.

Wow. Almost a year I’ve been working on this thing. Dec. 20th will mark the official anniversary of the blogging efforts. Christ, I’m wordy.

So, there was a grand experiment held back in October. A group of friends all decided that we were to participate in this year’s NaNoWriMo event. NaNoWriMo in itself has its own goal: write a complete novel in the month of November, no less than fifty thousand words. If you’ve ever written anything, you know that this is some heavy shit to draw down on. Especially if you have kids, a job, hobbies, friends, dogs, or any other thing that can distract you from the task. It is by no means something to take lightly if you’re serious about it because disappointment is almost certainly a plausible result.

However, me and mine are usually not up for just any challenge. No, dear reader. Why wuss out when you could make it more interesting?

We wanted to have randomly assigned topics and requirements.

The methodology was simple. Three bowls would be generated, each populated with slips of paper. Upon these scraps were written words and phrases. These slips would be divided into topics, themes and settings. We would then begin the draw. There was to be no trading. There was to be no whining. There was to be no peeking. And, with that said, we drew our lots.

We got some interesting draws. ‘A creepy, cloistered nun’ was one. ‘Tragic samurai in seventeenth century France’ was another. We even got a ‘Victorian England mobster sitcom.’

I drew ‘Pirates coming of age in Washington D.C.’

My inner ninja bristled. As you may well know, ninjas and pirates do NOT get along. So, I must admit to some disappointment in my draw.

The next stipulation was that we were only allowed to ponder and brainstorm on our idea until November 1st. We were not to put pen to paper, to begin writing outlines or notes. Just brainstorming. We had four days before November would begin. I held a brainstorming night between myself and a few other friends in which we used my living room whiteboard to straighten up possibilities. I mused on it in my downtime – which I had a lot of given I was, at that time, on vacation.

On November 1st, 12:00 AM, I began The Pirates of the DeeCee Beltway, a novel set in a dystopian future in the aftermath of a great second civil war in North America. As of today, November 11th, I am at eight hundred words shy of forty thousand words.

Admittedly, having a week worth of vacation time to write gave me a considerable edge. The fact that I have completed a novel’s first draft also helped. The fact that I am not married, do not have a significant other, have no children or pets also helped. For once, some of the things I was lacking were actually helping me out. And, I surprisingly embraced an inner pirate I did not know I had (if you tell any ninjas, my ghost will haunt you in the wake of my shiruken filled demise).

There are definitely pirates. There is definitely a loss of childhood for the protagonist. DeeCee is something I really need to play up better. The story opens in the skies above it (because, these are sky pirates) but after that goes to Eastern Tennessee, then Central Pennsylvania. I have it figured that the denouement is going to happen in DeeCee both on the ground and in the air. I’ll figure something out. I still have nineteen days left.

So, my challenge now isn’t ‘can I get 50K in words?’, it’s ‘how much can I do in the time given?’ 50K has proven not to be the destination… it’s the minimum required for success.

I’m going to kick November’s ass.