It's getting more real.

Saturday was the Chicago-area kickoff party for National Novel Writing Month. It was bizarre for me — mainly because this introvert actually attended an event where I knew not a single soul. It turned out to be a pretty cool event, if only to get the opportunity to check out the Uptown Writers Space, which I've wanted to do for some time.

I quickly gravitated toward other NaNoWriMo virgins like myself . . . or perhaps most of the people there were newbies, I'm not sure. We immediately talked about how we discovered NaNoWriMo, how difficult we thought it was going to be, how much prep (if any) we had done. I was pretty shocked to discover that, of the five people in our little chat circle, I was by far the most "prepared." Three of the others had no clue what they would be writing come midnight 11/1. One had a vague idea — basically a title — and a setting. And that was it.

I put "prepared" in quotes above because I'm not sure that it's wise to be too prepared for NaNoWriMo. By actually having some character studies and a vague plot outline, I wonder if I'm already narrowing my options, painting myself into a corner, and preparing to go blank when things don't seem to be going the way I expected. There should be no surprise that this is a metaphor for issues in my life (especially my creative life), where I have always struggled with the idea of improvising when things go pear-shaped from how I had planned it. Maybe this will be my great battle in November.

I wouldn't have been as prepared as I am if it weren't for the hour-and-a-half I spent on the El on Friday night when I headed downtown for a going-away party for a friend. (For those of you keeping score, that was two social events in a 24-hour period — a level of social involvement I don't believe I've achieved since college.) On the ride to and from downtown, with the accompaniment of 39 songs shuffling on my iPod, I got down sketches of my main character, his father, his love interest, her daughter, the daughter's best friend/unofficial guardian. I also got down on paper for the first time some of the many "moments" and scenes that have been flying inside my head.

Then, Sunday morning, when Zuzu got up insanely early, I settled her in front of Go, Diego, Go and I started outlining my plot. Half an hour later, I was petrified: while I have a beginning, middle, and end, ther are enormous gaps in between. You know, where the real stuff happens.

But Chris Baty assures me (via his book) that I don't need to worry about this. I need to let that fear go, trust that the magic will happen in the middle of the night. And I'm going to trust Baty — though I have to admit that this is sounding suspiciously like the "think method" espoused in Meredith Willson's The Music Man.

Friend MIA

One of my obsessions is to keep track of old friends. My drive to do this must be rooted in my desire to hold on to -- and often re-experience -- the past. One odd aspect of this obsession is that most times I don't feel the need to write to them on any regular basis. I just want to know where they are. Once I know, I'm happy. Until a few months down the line, when I have to do another checkup on them.

I have a short list of four or five friends who have eluded my detective work for some time now. Person Number One is someone who, though we have not spoken in almost a decade, I still consider to be one of my dearest friends.

I didn't like Andrew at first. We met in college, both working on the student newspaper. I had a column on popular music, and he had a column that was ... really hard to peg. He was all over the place. He was boisterous, and the noise distracted most people (including me for awhille) from the indisputable fact that he was brilliant. Still, we were thrown together when his girlfriend and my girlfriend decided to room together. That's when I finally figured out what a gem Andrew was in a school sadly devoid of creative thinking.

When we graduated, I went to New York and he and I began writing letters. Andrew helped me survive one of the toughest periods of my life. As happens to too many young, naive kids with dreams, New York fed on me, and after my internship at the PBS affiliate ended without a job, I was feeling pretty beat up. On top of that, my long-distance relationship with my girlfriend was disintegrating and my family was going through some difficult times. Andrew's letters helped me survive an incredibly sad, lost time. His writing wasn't always brilliant, but I was fascinated with the amazing leaps in cultural logic he would make. The inside jokes, the not-so-non-sequitirs, and the bareness of his soul. He liked me, in part, because I got him a lot more than most people, that I was able to make those ridiculous leaps with him.

Here's a sample of his writing. Sometimes his honesty tips into maudlin. But that self-effacing style was part of Andrew's charm. And I feel like during that hard time, he was the only non-family person who reached out to me, was willing to listen (or read) me, and opend up to me in the same way. (Names of others mentioned have been abbreviated.)

12/04/87
St. Louis

My Dearest Marck,

I received your letter of the 27th a few days ago and I've been anticipating this letter in return with the warm of a fire that crackles in your mind's eye as you walk the last 100 yards through the snow. I find that I enjoy anything that has to do with enjoyment if it is sipped, instead of gulped. It is unfortunate that my background as an extremely petty bourg has bred me to the gulp. But then again, perhaps that only gives me more breadth.

How are you my good friend? Your letter was a God-send at the end of a particularly colorless day. The only thing drearier than a Midwest late Fall day is a Midwestern winter. It is times like this that try the fairly true wisdom of Calvin Trillin, who said "for Mid-westerners, a hometown has not statute of limitations." Of course, this isn't Indianapolis. I pray God I shall never again face a Winter in that place. I don't mind a winter with snow, but a winter that's as bleak and barren as an icebox, that is a vision of the devil womb and Dante's second Hell. These snowboots were made for walking ... to Miami.

So ... Miami. Wup, wrong paragraph.

As I was saying, it was great to hear from y'all. It was a revealing letter and that is a difficult thing to pull off. Though, on the other hand, I suppose there is still enough distance between us that this is still not all that difficult. But still, I was pleased to receive it.

To go through your letter in comment:

Yes, it is feminine, this angstschaltz over the gal. I think as artists and as sensitive youths we are as feminate as we shall ever be. Once we were children and as such removed from either, someday we will be men; in the mean time we are people. I would not like to change, but I will. I will become my father. It is my theory that the crucial turning point in maturing is facing up to the reality that you will or have become your father and accepting it.

Look at us with these women. We are a pair of jokes, we two. We are jokes in search of a punch-line. Misogynists in Love. Ah, but better by far than "Miss Oginyst's in Heat." We may be jokes, we may be in poor taste, but we're sensitives by damn it.

Living with T & D must be interestingly odd. I am not a difficult person to live with. But I cannot think of many people I would enjoy living with. Perhaps only A. Perhaps not even her, she has days that make me bite my fist. Perhaps that is why I have no real friends. I am a failed misanthrope. You are appalled. I think I would like living with y'all. There are parts of it that I know I would enjoy. I am easy to please in most respects. That's a conscious decision. I decided when I was 11 that as human's only two reacitons are to laugh or to cry, I would laugh, where possibly. Still, I am ... a bum.

Ah, collaboration. I roll it around in my mind like a heady vintage. It shall be interesting and odd -- in a pleasant way. I look forward to it. Tomorrow I'm going to buy the Music Studio software for the Comodore 64, you know, where the guy's jumping up in the air. I need to write. I want to send you some stuff. This nocturne, for instance. I think I need to rethink my creative process. I always show things to people. I judge their reaction, I use their thoughts as catalysts. But I begin to see that I shall get nowhere really until I find my own voice. And to do so, I must try all kinds of oddities in search of the beams to erect my oeuvre from. And these elementary sophomoric attempts are extremely hard to judge. Who can say: I know comedy! Abbott, you go with this guy Hardy. Laurel, you team up with Costello here? Even A, even you, most assuredly my family. I need to make my odd noises. I must learn to shape myself.

I am determined to carve my own working space. I begin to realize that I cannot work directly in the vein of my heroes. And there are enough people mining the center floor. I must turn to the side and sink a new shaft. I will attempt, with my construction of words and music to consider and revise even the smallest element. The word, the note. I am ashamed to say that I haven't the patience now to truly do this. I must pray God to show me grace. I need it.

Say hi to R for me. I had a crush on her a time or two, but I assume she doesn't know and it's just as well; as Dylan & Caitlin Thomas proved, drunkards should never marry.

Why do I feel for you? Maybe you do feel peppy and that things are happening for you, but who am I to feel for? Myself? Those would only be Irish tears. A? E? Psaw. They need our love, not our sympathy. They'll take that when they need it. I look at you and see options that I might have taken, I see bits of what I've gone through and what I'm going through now. I feel sorry.

The difference between you and me #13: I like New York. You love it.

Send me some parts of your work at hand. If it's words, I can read them. If it's notes, I can enter them in my program. I can send you ideas back. We can exchange if you like. No value judgements on direction or the context. Just options, given in respect of our individual voices. Come on, don't chicken out on me. Send me some working copy. I dare you, in a friendly manner.

Yes, I miss being truly Avante myself. I have begun wearing earrings in my spare time again. Just the wires, it's odd, minimalist and cheap.

I was touched by your feelings at the Thanksgiving service. You have a heart like a lion, Marck. You must be good to it.

Berkeley. What are they doing to us? I could cry. I could rant and rave. I too, may move closer to the only reason to live. I am ashamed ... but only to a degree. Thank-you for the place to stay. I am grateful to you for it. Likewise, I am sure. A poet once said it is great to say let me help, than to say I love you. But he isn't dead yet, so who cares?

I have bought a tape of David Carradine reading "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac. God-like. Purely god-like. I've already read the book a dozen times but I had no idea that Beat is only truly intelligible when orally presented. Soon, I believe, I shall send you a copy. I think you would be interested in it.

I miss A. We talked the other day and I think things are a lot better between us. I finally got a letter from her today. I devoured it like life. I want more. I am not satiated. Ah ... love is like a gentle kick in the teeth. Well, I must go now. I shall write again soon. Till then, have fun in Gotham.

Your pen-pal,
Dean Musclwitz

Six months later, Andrew had talked me into abandoning The Mealy Apple for the midwest. I have him to thank for bringing me to Chicago, and thus in some indirect way for my beautiful family. Andrew and I had dreams of writing amazing songs together, but our approaches never meshed. He was too loose and I was far too tight. I was unwilling to change, and perhaps he was unable to. I never gave him the chance I should have. We roomed together in two different apartments for a little over a year, and then I moved out. He soon met the woman he would marry, who carried an extreme dislike for me. And so we drifted apart.

Andrew now lives in the southwest. He founded a wonderful radio drama troupe. They recently put up a web site. It's the first time I've been able to track him down beyond old, defunct email addresses. I'm writing him occasionally, and I plan to continue, giving him little updates on my life. He has not responded. I'm not sure why. Hopefully he'll come 'round and realize that, at least on this end, all is forgiven, if there is anything to forgive. Perhaps he's not there on his end yet.

I miss your words, Andrew. I hope you get back in touch.