NaNoWriMo is upon us. I've decided to tackle it, at long last, and hopefully come out of it at the end with fifty thousand more words than I had before, strung into something like a story.

You can see the new widget off in the sidebar that monitors my progress towards this erstwhile goal, and if you're really curious, you can check my NaNoWriMo profile.

The book: The Owners.

The setting: a Midwestern city, somewhen soon.

The plot: Freedom of speech and travel are severely restricted, but of course, most take little notice. Secret law is systematized and codified. Financial scandal rocks major corporations, making way for hostile takeovers by private (wealthy) individuals. Drought ravages southern Africa, and Lesotho is the new hotbed of rebellion. The US (finally!) keeps its hands out of the mess, and is accused of "human rights violations" because of it. Kidnappings baffle law enforcement at all levels as several radical groups take credit. Sounds lurid, doesn't it?

The spoiler: View source to read. If you don't want to know, don't look.

The clincher: While the story can probably support twice this many, I've still got to write about eighteen hundred words per day for the rest of the month just to hit fifty thousand.

You can't play volleyball with rules. You just can't! Not at a church picnic at the beach or the park. So we didn't. A rabble on this side of the net, a roughly-equal rabble on the other. No one kept track of "rotations" for serving. No one posited the silly little idea of keeping score. That's how you're supposed to play volleyball with a bunch of friends.

This afternoon we had church in the park, a most wonderful idea (and one that I've missed from my church back home). After an afternoon of volleyball, horseshoes, and softball, stopping little kids from accidentally squashing other little kids in the rented "bounce thing," alongside just sitting in the shade and talking, we had a sumptuous potluck picnic. Singing among the trees and grass once the service got underway . . . trying to pay attention to Pastor as the birds tried equally to grasp our attention . . .

These are the things I grew up with. I grew up with a hundred or so people heading down to the park, grabbing a huge swath of back-end real estate, and parking grill after grill just barely out of range of the makeshift volleyball courts. I remember the hot summer days spent running about and sitting with the "grown-ups" trying to act grown-up myself, and of course the food and more food!

And it's been too long since I played volleyball without rules.

Nothing can even begin to describe the freedom I feel now. To not be consigned to drive whenever I need to go somewhere, to be free to feel the wind in my face and hair and between my toes, to propel myself over the crest of a hill and exult in the rushing — almost falling free — down the other side: this is freedom.

I just got my new bicycle assembled (the one I'd had since high school was stolen last November), and am feeling once again the footloose mood coming upon me. There's just something about taking a little work to get somewhere that makes it worth going — and since I've been riding to school, mostly, my destinations usually need the motivation!

I've been spending some money on my baby as well. (Yes, my bicycle is my baby: my truck is just a vehicle.) A few days ago I went down to a great little cycle shop in Augusta ("Andy Jordan's," I believe it's called, over on 13th street) and plunked down nearly a hundred bucks for some lights, a saddlebag, and a lock. But she's worth it . . . (What? Isn't everything worthwhile and valuable of the fairer sex? I mean, bikes, boats, computers: they're all "she" . . .)