#NaNoWriMo and #FreewriteMadness Has Begun! My First Effort

Oh my ... the #NaNoWriMo and #FreewriteMadness fun has officially kicked off! I already have my work cut out for me: I'm trying to silence the inner critic in my head and just allow the words to flow. In this post, I am sharing the results of my very first bout of writing.

Full disclosure: this entire chapter (entitled 'It Puts Bread on the Table') wasn't written today! Significant chunks of it predate November. I have italicised those pieces of text and excluded them from my word count so far – I am just putting them in this post for context, so that the story as a whole makes sense. I decided that my first NaNoWriMo challenge would be to try and plug all of the gaping holes in this chapter, which is what I have now done. 😊 Woohoo!

I intend to do more writing today, so I'm not going to officially update my word count on the #FreewriteMadness challenge form yet, but as of right now – based on all of the non-italicised text here – I have written 734 words. A rush of first-day enthusiasm is bearing me onwards.

It Puts Bread on the Table

Ele.ro

‘Hey.’

‘Hi.’

They exchange a hesitant smile. Sarah still can’t quite place Mark’s accent. He sounds as though he may be from the Midlands. Offaly, perhaps. Or Westmeath. His curly auburn hair has been shaved on either side of his head, with one large section remaining intact in the centre. He has deep-set hazel eyes and heavily freckled skin.

She suddenly feels acutely conscious of how plain she must look, with her plump, heart-shaped face that makes her seem much younger than her actual age of twenty-four, and her mousey shoulder-length hair that always, always, goes flat within an hour, no matter what she tries to do with it. She has made an effort to dress up tonight, but her wardrobe is ill-equipped for occasions like this. Black jeans and a shimmering green top were the best she could do, but the top is covered by her sodden raincoat right now.

‘Okay!’ André proclaims, suddenly appearing by her side. ‘Here, Sar, I’ll take your coat. We’re putting them all in the cloakroom…’

‘Thanks, André.’

His eyes widen and flicker between Sarah and Mark. He mouths: Am I interrupting something?

She shakes her head and shoos him away, blushing. Mark didn’t see all that, did he? Hopefully not – he’s checking his phone at the moment.

After a moment, he smiles and looks up at her. ‘Sorry, just checking a work email. There was a problem in the office earlier today and it took ages to sort out. It’s boring, it doesn’t matter. Looks like it’s sorted now anyway … how are you?’

‘I’m good. You?’

‘Great.’

They stand there for a few moments, Sarah awkwardly bobbing her head to the music. André and the others are gathered around the cloakroom. He wasn’t exactly subtle about pushing her and Mark together at the beginning of the evening: he had practically frog-marched her over to the bar and made a big show out of saying hello to Mark, before ‘suddenly remembering’ that he had to go and help Jack with the coats.

'I don’t come to this place very often,' Mark shouts over the music. 'It’s full of people who make me feel old … is it just me, or does their clientele get younger and younger every night?'

'No idea,' Sarah shouts back. 'But Jack and his friends like it – that’s all I know.'

'Yeah.' He laughs. 'I don’t know, maybe I’m getting a bit old for this whole clubbing thing. I’m in my late twenties now … I ought to leave the whippersnappers to it.'

'Oh, come on,' she protests with a smile, 'that isn’t old!'

'Ah, I’m messing. Kind of…'

She smiles and cranes her neck to look at the harried bartenders, who are rushing around trying to fulfil customers’ orders. 'Are you getting anything?'

'I’d like to,' he responds ruefully, 'but there’s no chance of us getting served right now. Not with that huge group in front of us.'

She shakes her head and laughs. 'Yeah, I guess. So, um … how do you know Jack again?'

‘I’m a friend of a friend from college. Damian, you remember? I was in the same class as him, and he knows Jack, so we were all out last weekend –’

'Oh yeah…' Sarah does remember him, vaguely: the tall, somewhat imposing guy – strong, square jaw, sharp brown eyes – with his dark hair in a buzzcut. He had intimidated her slightly, but then, doesn’t everyone?

André and Jack approach the bar, freed at last from the cloakroom queue.

‘I swear to God,’ André exclaims, ‘the impatience of some people! I’ve had enough of being pushed around for one night –’ He seamlessly cuts his way through the enormous crowd of people in front of them, to reach the front of the bar. ‘Hi, could I have a gin and tonic, please? And – hang on – Sarah? Jack? What do you all want? I’m getting this round.’

‘How does he do that?’ Sarah whispers to Mark, a tone of wonder in her voice. ‘I’m way too scared to wrestle through a crowd like that. Vodka and coke, please, André…’

He has soon returned, bearing a tray of drinks.

‘How do you do that?’ Sarah asks him immediately.

‘It’s all about showing initiative, Sar,’ he declares as he hands out everyone’s drinks and sets the tray on a nearby table. Quietly, with a glance at Mark, he adds, ‘initiative will get you far in life, remember that…’

Sarah makes a noise that she hopes will come across as a carefree, light-hearted laugh. Anxious to disguise how flustered she is, she swallows a hasty mouthful of her drink, but immediately regrets this decision when she begins to choke on it. André turns to stare at her, his eyes wide. ‘Are you okay, Sar?’

‘I – I’m – fine,’ she croaks, before a fresh fit of coughing overtakes her.

André thumps her on the back several times which, if anything, makes her feel worse. Mark looks somewhat unnerved by the intensity of her coughing, while Jack’s eyebrows are raised.

‘Sorry,’ Sarah gasps, when her breathing has finally returns to normal. ‘I just … you know … drank it too fast, or something…’ She stares down at the floor and dares to take another, more tentative sip, praying that the colour in her cheeks will soon subside.

They move to a table with a semi-circular sofa alongside it, where some of Jack’s friends have congregated. Sarah recognises Damian and a few others whom she met last weekend. She smiles politely at them all – says hello – but they’re all engaged in what looks to be a hilarious conversation about something that happened within their group back in college, and she can’t think of anything witty to add. She doesn’t know where to sit either.

André seems to sense this. As Mark moves onto the sofa and takes his seat, André hangs back and says, pointedly, ‘after you, Sar.’ She smiles gratefully at him – this way, she will be next to Mark, but André will be right on the other side of her, if conversation runs dry or things get too awkward.

The group seems to have moved on to talking about a lecturer they once had, whom nobody liked. Mark joins in with the discussion for a few minutes, regaling the group with an anecdote about how this lecturer was meant to be his thesis supervisor, but was rarely available for meetings and provided him with almost no help.

After a few minutes, he clears his throat, smiles and turns to ask Sarah, ‘so … how is work going?’

‘Oh … it’s going grand, you know.’

‘You work in a supermarket, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s okay,’ Sarah responds with a shrug. ‘Boring, mostly. But you’d be surprised, sometimes! The people who come in –’ At this point, she hesitates. She was about to launch into the story about Derek Fitzmaurice, but she doesn’t think he would like to be gossiped about. Telling André about it was one thing. She knows it will not go any further than him. But as for telling people she doesn’t really know… ‘The people who come in are really nice,’ she finishes weakly. ‘And, you know, it puts bread on the table.’ She stares down at the floor for a moment, praying that the colour in her cheeks will soon subside. She must sound so boring. ‘So, um .. what do you do? I know you said you worked in a bank or something –’

‘Oh, it’s not that interesting,’ he laughs, ‘it really isn’t. I work for Permanent TSB, and I spend most of my time sitting at a desk.’ He shrugs, then takes a sip of his drink and smiles ruefully at her. ‘As you said, it puts bread on the table.’

‘That’s what it’s all about these days.’

‘Especially with the rental market being the way it is…’

‘God, I know. André and I managed to get our place a couple of years ago, just before things got really bad. Luckily, our landlady is really nice. She doesn’t want to raise the rent just yet, but –’

‘Please tell me you’re not going on about the fucking house market right now,’ André groans, overhearing their conversation. ‘What are you, fifty?’

‘Speak for yourself. Mark and I were just about to have a fascinating discussion about the ins and outs of tracker mortgages,’ Sarah retorts.

‘I bet Mark is one of those annoying people who knows what a tracker mortgage is,’ Jack chimes in. He glares accusingly at Mark, who laughs, hold his hands up and admits, ‘I am.’

‘That’s not fair,’ André exclaims. ‘Tracker mortgages are meant to remain one of the great mysteries of the world.’

‘You understand something that mere mortals never will,’ Jack adds. ‘It puts you on a totally different plane to the rest of us.’

‘It’s my job to know about them. What can I do?’

‘Get another job, Mark,’ Sarah jokingly advises him. ‘That’s clearly the only thing that will be good enough for these two.’

‘Clearly.’ He beams at her, and she – blushing slightly – holds his gaze for a moment, then lowers her eyes to the table.

✭ ✭ ✭

‘This weather is ridiculous, André!’ she yells, over the relentless rainfall and the honking, angry traffic of city centre Dublin. More than once, she has nearly been knocked over by people racing down the street to get indoors as quickly as possible. ‘Remind me, why did you get me to come out tonight, of all nights?’

‘So that you and Mr Lover Boy could get it on, of course.’

‘Oh God. We’re not going to get it on…’

‘Hmm. Not tonight, maybe.’

‘And he’s not my lover boy.’

He turns around to wink at her. ‘Don’t you get all coy with me, Sar! There’s potential there, right?’

She shrugs and rolls her eyes, but can’t stop a small smile from creeping onto her face. She liked Mark. She enjoyed their conversation. Perhaps something could happen between them, given a bit more time. For now, the most she can say to André is, ‘maybe.’

‘Ha! I knew it.’

'Yeah yeah, enjoy your little gloat,’ Sarah retorts. Just then, she sees their bus in the distance, turning onto the street. ‘Shit! Come on André, we have to run.’