Pho-toe

Word count after today's writing: 43,034. It's a palindrome!

Word 40,000

Word 40,000: "himself"

A photo (again)

Today's Pic/Yesterday's Summary

“Booth, wake up,” Kate whispered.
“Shhh,” Kate said. Booth’s face softened. Booth asked.
Booth asked.
Kate asked.
Kate wondered. Kate shoved Booth into the door. “Very funny,” Kate said. Booth eyed Kate’s outfit.

A photo

Another turning point

Wearing that 2003 NANOWRIMO shirt.

Hit another kind of turning point today. Or another realization. Or something. Somehow worked into Lincoln's security using a look-alike for his security and then thought, "What if they hired John Wilkes Booth as his look-alike?" Booth was an actor, right? Well.... So then it comes up that Booth might be sent to Baltimore without additional security even knowing that there's an assassination plot -- basically using him as bait. Kate, of course, can't abide by this -- sending an innocent man to his death. This scene kinda hit me as neat:

“Who gives a damn about appearances?” Kate asked. “This is a man’s life I’m talking about.”
“Booth knew what he was getting into when he signed up for the job.”
“So did Lincoln,” Kate countered.
“Touché. But surely you’d agree that Lincoln’s life is worth far more than Booth’s, right?”
“I didn’t come here for a philosophical debate on the value of the life of an individual. I will grant you that Lincoln will do more for the health and prosperity of the Union than Booth will. However, we’re not talking about saving lives here. We’re talking about potentially throwing away one man’s life to preserve the reputation of another.”

So, Kate's going to break him out and take him through Baltimore safely, saving Booth's life, but ultimately dooming Lincoln's. Wubba wubba!

11/18 Photo

Word 30,000

It snowed today. In a few moments, there was accumulation. This is ridiculous!

Word 30,000? Fittingly enough, it was "Kate." She has taken over this "novel" almost completely. Just writing a scene where she catches sight of Lincoln and I realized that it had been over a week since I wrote anything for him. Funny how the first week of November I felt I was so deeply entrenched in Lincoln's head that he was like someone I knew. After a week of writing for Kate, when she see him, I really felt like I no longer knew him at all. Real bizarre.

I'm so much more favorable towards Pinkerton lately. Turns out he was a staunch abolitionist, real seeker of justice.... The Deadwood stuff, of course, comes from one of the most vile people (Swearengen) and naturally he would be opposed to someone who was looking to put an end to his criminal way of life. On the other hand, Pinkerton (or Pinkerton agents) were hired by coal mines to bust up unions and deal harshly with thieves and organizers.... Tough to know, really, which side the man stood on.

Still little hope of integrating this all. People ask me if they can read it when I'm all done and with this one, more than any other, I don't think I'll ever be done. I guess they (you) can read it in its entirety, but....there's right now a real big jump in structure, tone, voice, character between the two parts. Not sure if it makes for a good read. Maybe someone will have a concept of how to put it all together. I'm too deeply into the need to get the words done, perhaps I can leave it to someone else to decide how to put them into the right places, or if it's even worth it....

Something of an excerpt

It's sweater time!

More writing at Morseland. Makes the hours just melt away. Noticing that this year, although the story is much less coherent, I'm able to get the words done at decent hours. Not nearly as much 3AM writing, or exhaustion, or stuff like this which was simply autobiographical material about what I saw when looking in the mirror one day. 28,531 words and other than killing most contractions, using 2 adjectives when 1 will do, and one or two minor word pads, all the words are honest-to-goodness words that belong. (These are different from good words whose number is much smaller....)

Anyhow, here's some stuff:

Back at the party, Kate noticed strange couple completely out of place at the affair. The gentleman wore a fedora, a long cape, short pants and jackboots, while the woman wore a Chinese robe and her feet were wrapped in dirty gray bandages. Rather than being ostracized, however, they were surrounded by a captive audience. Intrigued, Kate approached the group.
The man was speaking loudly, while the woman danced in circles around him. The crowd that had gathered were clapping along, cheering whenever the man said something that they found particularly poignant.
“….and I say that is bupkis!” shouted the man. “If we are not free to choose are own destiny, why then did our forefathers gather this collective of colonies into a nation in the first place? Would we not at be better off still under British rule? At least then, our tea would not be so expensive!”
The crowd burst into applause. Kate turned to one observer and asked, “Who is that man?”
“That is Mr. Hutcheson,” replied the man. “He is a great speaker, is he not?”
“He’s a great something, alright,” Kate said under her breath. The man was ridiculous, garish, and far too overt in his disdain for the Union to be genuine, Kate thought. But still, it was the strongest lead she had and she would be remiss if she didn’t pursue it. So, she lingered at the edge of the crowd, half-listening to Hutcheson’s rantings while she scanned the crowd for signs of Abernathy and Ferrandini, neither of whom she had seen thus far.
Hutcheson’s speech eventually trailed off, having invoked the wrath of God, good Southerners everywhere, and common decency upon any man, institution or entity who tried to take away his given rights to own another man, drink as much whiskey as he wanted to or dance on Sunday mornings. The crowd dispersed, and Kate was left standing, facing Hutcheson and the dancing woman who was now busy gathering up a handful of coins that the crowd had thrown at their feet. Kate shook her head, wondering what other entertainment the evening would have to offer. She was turning to leave when the Hutcheson stopped her with a piercing gaze, filled with uncomfortable familiarity.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” Hutcheson said.
“We have not,” Kate replied.
“Ah, yes, well. Allow me to rectify that. I am Mr. John Hutcheson, and this,” he gestured towards the robe-clad woman, “is my associate, Miss Hattie Lewis.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Kate said automatically. “My name is Barley.”
Hutcheson crossed the ten feet of floor that separated them and asked, “Miss Barley?”
Kate sighed. “Yes, Miss Barley. Miss Mary Barley.”
Hutcheson took Kate’s hand and kissed it delicately, though he looked as if he were considering more. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Kate took her hand back distastefully. “Indeed. If you’ll excuse me….” She searched for an excuse to leave Hutcheson’s company.
Hutcheson leaned in more closely and whispered, “I think your cover may have been compromised.”
Kate recoiled in shock. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Why have you never heard of John H. Hutcheson? Southern loyalist? Performer extrordinaire? Gadfly, layabout, ne’er-do-well? Or perhaps, John H. Hutcheson, comedian, sharpshooter and master chef? No?”
Kate shook her head. Hutcheson lowered his voice again, “Perhaps you have heard of” and his voice changed to one very familiar to Kate “Mr. Allan Pinkerton, detective, loyal Unionist, friend to honesty, foe to crime?”
“Mr. Pinkerton!” Kate hissed.
“Quiet, Kate,” Pinkerton said. “It wouldn’t do to be overheard.”
“When did you arrive? What are you doing here?”
“I arrived this morning, and I’m doing the same thing you’re doing: attempting to serve our country’s good by protecting the life of its leader-to-be.”
Kate gazed past Pinkerton at the dancing woman who was now making a circuit around the room, holding Pinkerton’s hat and asking each man she passed for a donation of any change they could spare.
“Who is she?” Kate asked.
Pinkerton glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, that is Miss Hattie Lawton – she’s going by Lewis on this mission – another fine addition to the Pinkerton Woman’s Detective Agency.”
“The what now?” Kate asked.
“Oh, I neglected to inform you. I’ve decided that my success with you could be duplicated, so I’ve established – much to my sons’ displeasure, mind you – a division within the agency made up of female agents. I know you were proud to be the only woman amongst us, but take heart in knowing that you will always have been the first. And besides, now you’ll have someone to talk to.”
Kate wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m not sure that we’d have that much in common.”
“Oh come now,” Pinkerton said. “She’s quite charming, in her own way. She does tend to get lost in her roles, though. I told her to play eccentric, but she’s taken it well beyond there and all the way to flat out crazy.” Pinkerton sighed. “Still, she’s amusing. And very convincing.”
“Speaking of convincing,” Kate said, “that was quite a show you put on there.”
“Did you enjoy it? I was quite proud. Wrote it on the train from Chicago.”
“It was hardly subtle.”
“Subtlety, I’ve found, is not an art that these people have much appreciation for. No, better to go over the top, let people have no doubts about where your loyalties lay.”
“If anyone believed that act, they’ll have no doubts about yours.”
“Exactly.”
“You said that you think my cover may be blown?” Kate asked.
“Indeed. I noticed a distinct chill exhibited towards you by many of those in the crowd. Either they suspect you are a Unionist, or else you did something, in your few days here, to anger them.”
“I did attempt to provoke Ferrandini – you received my letters, didn’t you? – with a prayer for Lincoln’s health,” Kate admitted.
“And why, pray tell, did you do that?”
“I’m not sure. I supposed I had tried everything else.”
“So instead of the subtle approach, you took a blunter tactic,” Pinkerton suggested.
“I imagine I took the wrong approach.”
Lawton returned, Pinkerton’s hat almost filled with coins. Taking the hat from her, Pinkerton asked, “How much, do you think?”
“About twenty-five dollars, all told,” Lawton said.
“This will make a fine donation to someone’s cause,” Pinkerton mused.
“Hello Miss Warne,” Lawton said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Allan has told me so much about you.”
Allan? thought Kate. She calls him Allan?
“I wish I could say the same about you,” Kate replied. “I’ve heard next to nothing about you.”
“Well,” Lawton said, “I’ve only just come on board. But Allan says I’m a natural. That I have a great future ahead of me in the business.”
“That’s splendid. Will you excuse Allan and me for a moment?”
Lawton looked at Pinkerton who, with the slightest movement of his eyes, told her to leave them in private.
“Are you sleeping with her?” Kate demanded.
For the first time in their association, Pinkerton appeared not to have anticipated Kate’s question. “What?” He laughed nervously. “Of course not! Miss Warne, don’t be ridiculous. You sound just like my sons.”
“Well, your sons are as observant as you, sometimes. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. They figured us out rather quickly.”

Flying Olives

A wonderful photo. Yeah. Walked in, took off my coat, took picture. 3AM.

Wrote 1200 words on unlined laser paper at work. Someone -- I'm not naming names -- threw an olive at me while I was doing this. It bounced off the table and landed in my left sleeve. Amazing throw, but I hate olives passionately, so it was an unpleasant experience.

I'm losing my sense of humor about all this.... Need to find it again.

First Word Pad

Did my first real word padding of the year. I don't f eel guilty.

From there, they proceeded into the kitchen where the house staff was busy preparing the evening’s meal of roast goose, turkey confit, grilled asparagus, glazed yams, Western omelet fritters, and pulled polenta with raddichio-gorgonzola bruchetta.

I mean, that's not egregious by any stretch of the imagination.

Baltimore Plot

Working out Kate's investigation into the Baltimore plot. Haven't written about Lincoln since Saturday, which is weird as I'd really felt like I was bonding with the man somehow. Plus, so many Lincoln references were popping up all the time -- Fallout 3, The Simpsons, Obama's speech -- that I felt like I was really onto something. Some day I will be forced to meld the two parts of this novel into one cohesive thing. I had really planned on focusing on Booth and Dubois, but that has fallen by the wayside as well. Funny that when you plan something to be a story that jumps around from time to time with separate chunks of stories, it falls apart into a non-cohesive mess. Who woulda thunk it?

Kate's cool though, and I enjoy writing about her and Pinkerton. Have I said that already? I must have done. I somehow write 1800 words in a short period of time. Count now stands at 20,488, which is 2162 words ahead of pace and an average of 1863 words a day. Not too shabby. Two years ago, I was at 26,300 words, averaging 2391 words a day.

But we're 40.98% of the way there. Go us!

Holy crap, it's the 10th

A scary-ish moment today when I realized it was Nov 10 and my word count was dangerously close to being the answer to the calculation m * d where m = the minimum daily word count needed to hit 50,000 by the end of the month (1666) and d = the current date. That's psychologically very very bad for me, because I figure the only way I'm going to get through this is by staying well ahead of the minimum pace. I figure if I rock out some more words today (already at 600) and can get anywhere close to yesterday's output, I'll get back to my ahead of schedule schedule. And that will be a good thing.

A turning point!

I also have gray t-shirts (thanks to Tony!)

Last night I was reading about The Baltimore Plot and found some very interesting things concerning the Pinkerton Agency - specifically about Kate Warne, Pinkerton's first female operative. Decided to write about the Baltimore Plot a little bit but held onto it as a topic for writing on today at work.

Glad I did -- today I handwrote 2500 words about Warne and a fictitious first meeting between her and Pinkerton in a scene directly out of a heist/spy film. It's not the greatest writing, I don't think, since action-adventure is not my real strong suit, but I am buoyed by the idea that I actually have a basis for this book. Not sure how much reworking I'm going to do to make it all flow properly -- need to interleave scenes of her with scenes of Lincoln & co. BUT, it's all very positive and cool. My hand/arm is tired.

And I found this incredibly cool photo of Pinkerton, Lincoln and a Union officer named McClerndon. It's an amazingly crisp and clear photo and I dig it very much:

I especially like how Pinkerton looks like such a weasel (I'm naturally predisposed to hate him due to Deadwood poisoning the well) and how there's a slight blur on Lincoln's face....

No excerpt from this, as it's a huge continuous chunk that doesn't have any natural breaks. What? Okay. If you insist. Here's a short snippet:

“Please don’t be afraid. I would very much like to speak with you,” the man said. After a pause, he added, “Kate Warne.”
“How?” Kate asked. “How do you know my name?”
“You have not yet figured it out?” the man asked. “Why, it was I who contacted you in the first place. Do you not recognize me?”
Kate shook her head. This man looked and sounded nothing like the man she had met. It wasn’t possible.
“Perhaps you would know me,” said the man, “if I had a pencil-thin moustache, eyeglasses, a top hat, stood three inches taller, wore a Scottish dancing costume, and spoke like this.” The man’s voice raised to a high-pitched squeak.
Kate gasped, “Mr. Polrink!”
The man smiled. “Of course, Polrink is not my real name, just as that was not my voice, costume, height, hat, glasses, or moustache. Just as Kate Warne is not your true name. Disguises and aliases are a natural and frequent occurrence in our line of work.”
“And what exactly is your line of work, Mr….?”
The man stood and extended his hand. “Pinkerton,” he said. “My name is Allan Pinkerton.”

Saturday!

Turned on the "auto-flip new images" option so as not to cause any more disconcerting backwards text in the photos. Strange to think that I've actually been photographing with my left shoulder thrust back, as opposed to my right. Mirrors freak me out. The fact that Photo Booth defaults to working as a mirror is disconcerting.

That photo caption is about all I have to say, today.

Lest anyone think I'm wearing the same shirt every day, I'm not. I just happen to wear a white t-shirt most days and when I come home, lately, my thing has been to remove whatever shirt I'm wearing atop it and go around in the t-shirt until I need to go out again. I'm becoming very conscious of the fact that this is what I look like while I'm at home.

When I first started drinking wine (and let's not go into the whens and the hows of that in case there are any parental units reading) I preferred white wines because they were cold and more easily drunk, and I didn't know any better. Then, as I matured, I would only drink reds because I found it easier to discover the complexities and nuances of reds. I've recently begun to appreciate whites again, not for their coldness or their drinkability, but because beneath their innocent, unassuming appearance, there does lie a wide array of complexity. Who'd have thunk that a clear beverage could do so much?

The above paragraph is as related to this blog as everything I've been writing today.

Warning: This Excerpt is Ridiculous

Another white t-shirt photo. Go figure.

Wrote this today and while completely out of place, it was fun to write, and that's what really counts isn't it. Made me realize how much of an easy word pad swear words are. Stupid Lincoln didn't use foul language (or drink or use tobacco) which makes it hard to do any of the easy things it is to make a character do. Also tough to do any of the product placement that my sponsors keep demanding. ("Then Lincoln lit a Kool and noted with pleasure the refreshing menthol flavor.")

Anyhow -- without further ado (when Hitler hyped something up, was that Führer ado?...oh, that, right there, my friends, is too much good stuff....)


At Fort Sumter, Private J.K. Wheeler was huddled under a table with his longtime friend, Private Addleborough G. Kamloop as the shelling continued unabated.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Wheeler shouted over the booming explosions.
“It’s pretty goddamned ironic, if you ask me,” replied Kamloop.
“I’m not quite sure that it approaches irony as it’s so far wedged into the land of suck that it hasn’t time to be anywhere else.”
“Think about it, though,” insisted Kamloop. “Here we are in a coastal fort, being attacked from the fucking ground.”
“That’s exactly why it fucking sucks!” shouted Wheeler. “Their cannon are lobbing shells over the damned walls and our guns can’t point down far enough to even hit them. Anything that can traverse down to be effective is up at the top of the fort and you know what happened to the last guys who went up there to try to fire one.”
“Actually, I didn’t hear about that. What happened?”
“Well, you remember Jimmy Alton?”
“Sure, that kid from New York. Claimed he was gonna make it big as a musician or some shit, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Wheeler paused as a shell exploded nearby. “Jesus Fuck, that was close. Anyhow, so Major Anderson sends Jimmy with Weatherly and Townsend up there to see if they can’t start getting some fire trained on their cannon, only the second they get up there a shell lands damn near in Jimmy’s lap.”
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Kamloop.
“Yeah, exactly! So he’s bouncing it around in his hands not knowing what to do, right? And Weatherly is screaming at him to throw the fuckin’ thing back over the side and Townsend dives for cover except he falls through the ladder hatch.”
“Woah – is he alright?”
“Is he alright? That poor bastard fell three stories! He broke both his wrists! But you know what they say --”
“Coulda been worse. Right, right.”
“Exactly,” said Wheeler. “So Jimmy is hot potatoing this goddamn shell around and finally tosses it to Weatherly and Weatherly gets so pissed off that he drops the fucking thing on the ground and goes after Jimmy. Starts beating the blessed snot out of the poor kid. Meanwhile, the shell is just sitting there next to the powder magazine hissing and smoking, looking for an excuse to go off. But Jimmy and Weatherly are rolling around next to it, completely oblivious.”
“Jesus Christ. So does the shell go off?”
“Shit, man, if it had, we’d still be picking bits of Jimmy and Weatherly out of our hair. No, fuckin thing was a dud.”
“Those guys are seriously lucky bastards,” said Kamloops. “What are the odds?”
Another nearby explosion caused the two men to jump.
“Can’t we just fucking surrender?” asked Wheeler. “We should just surrender.”
“That’s the spirit, J.K.” Kamloops said, sarcastically.
“Oh come on. I mean, look at it this way – after this we’re going to be at war, right? No way Abe’s going to let them get away with this, even if they apologize real sweet. Secession was one thing. Yeah it was ‘legally void’ or whatever he called it, and sure it pissed him off, but you’ve got to think that at this point, they’ve crossed the fucking line. They’re attacking United States property. You think you can do that and get away with a slap on the wrist? Fuck no.”
“Fuck no, hoo-rah,” Kamloops grunted.
“Yeah, yeah, hoo-rah. U.S.A. U.S.A. My point is this: we are now well behind enemy lines. There are hundreds of Confed troops out there and thousands more all around us. How many guys do we have here, Addleborough?”
“Dunno. Eighty?”
“Eighty-six all told. Eighty fucking six. Cut off from the country we so dearly love and which holds us close to her heaving bosom. All alone in the wilderness and chaos of the Deep South which is full of backwards-thinking lunatics who can’t decide if they’re super tough or super nice. Right now, Southern Hospitality is going to be a stack of Johnny cakes followed by a musket ball in the throat.”
“Still, I hate to just surrender,” Kamloops said.
“Look, A.G., we are going to sweep through the South with the fury and force of the entire – well, half of it, anyway – United States Armed Forces. We will shock and awe the shit out of these fools until they are so scared they’ll shit their grits.”
“Hoo-rah!” Kamloops said.
“Hoo-rah,” sighed Wheeler.

A day and a half later, as Kamloops and Wheeler stood in formation to march from the fort under the terms of their surrender, they grinned at each other.
“Fuckin’ made it through, A.G.,” said Wheeler.
“Damn right we did,” said Kamloops.
“And we’ll be back, goddammit. All you motherfuckers better get ready for us,” Wheeler said raising his voice as though he were addressing the Southern troops, “because we will motherfuckin be back.”

Happy Day After Election Day!

I'd intended to take a picture with my voting receipt, but I lost the damn thing. Oh well. Trust me, I voted.

There are no newspapers available in the world today. It's ludicrous. Everybody on the planet wants a newspaper that says "Obama Wins!" Should have printed my own paper today. That woulda been smart.

So little writing got done today so far. Hope I can push through to a couple hundred more words. Totally uninspired in terms of making some sense of a story. Just writing bits and pieces that don't go together very well. Gah.

Realize I've been posting really long excerpts. Let's try to keep it shorter today so that someone might actually read it.

This is a silly scene between Lincoln and Mary. It's fun writing them together -- somehow Mary comes off as a fun-loving, clever girl. Everything I've read about her has her as paranoid and temperamental, but hey, it's fiction for a reason.

Lincoln returned to his own house, all but certain that he would accept Bell’s offer, or at the very least, participate in his plan. He was sure that Bell had not been entirely honest with him – he was a politician after all, was he not? – but that did not overly concern him. He felt sure that with the help of his friends – such as Jesse Dubois here in Springfield and Joshua Speed in Kentucky and his numerous other friends around the country, that whatever Bell had actually planned, he would be more than ready to see through it.
He entered the house, the nurse attending to the children’s bedtime needs, Mary attending to her own in her bedroom. He entered without knocking, finding her in a state of half-undress.
“Mr. Lincoln!” she shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Mrs. Lincoln, how would you like to be the First Lady of the United States?”
“Why, I’m not sure that President Buchanan is looking for a wife, but I suppose I would find it agreeable,” Mary joked.
Lincoln laughed uproariously, nearly shaking the house. He suddenly took his wife into his arms and kissed her. “Oh, Mary, that is why I love you!” he said.
“Because I would leave you for the President of the United States if I thought that he’d take me?” Mary smiled and pressed her forehead against her husband’s. “Honestly, Abe, what is this all about?”
“Would you be too upset if we had to move from here to Washington?”
“It’s an awfully long journey,” Mary said. “I’m not sure my constitution is strong enough for it.”
Lincoln playfully swatted Mary’s rear. “I’d say your constitution is plenty strong enough for that and more.”
“You are a naughty man, Mr. Lincoln,” Mary said coquettishly. “But really, what’s this all about? Stop beating around the bush.”
“I’ll do more than beat around….” Lincoln stopped at a look from his wife. “My apologies, lady. I ask you these questions because I would like to know your thoughts on my putting my hat in the ring for the presidency.”
“For the coming election?” Mary asked.
“Indeed, a mere fifteen months from now, the people will choose a new president. I would have them choose me.”
Mary smiled. “I could think of no better man for them to choose.”

...this post will contain something.

Go Namtla! Listening to the Steelers/Redskins game because if the Steelers win, then so will Obama. It's true: http://tinyurl.com/5lvvbq

Shall I copy and paste another excerpt? Okeydokey. I kinda like this one. One thing that's been cool is that when I've needed a character, I just mine the history and find one.... And sometimes they work out really well. Like John Bell might well have been like I write him.... But probably not. But really -- today I was writing about Lincoln "walking three doors down to his friend's house" and later I was looking for the name of a Lincoln friend. Turned out his buddy Jesse K. Dubois did live 3 doors away from Lincoln in Springfield. So convenient! ALSO, Lincoln snubbed Dubois for any political position after he was elected, making Dubois a great candidate for later nefariousnessity.

Springfield, Illinois
August 23rd, 1859

It had been unusually dry and hot that summer, across southern Illinois. Usually there was no lack of rain but this year, the spring rains hadn’t come, leaving the roads dusty, the creeks low, and farmers worried about their crops. Wells ran dry.
Lincoln left his office around one in the afternoon, intending to take his midday meal at an eatery near the State House. As he crossed the causeway, a carriage stopped suddenly before him, impeding his way. Lincoln stopped, staring at the side of the vehicle, uncharacteristic ire at the rudeness of the driver rising in his mind. It passed quickly, and he was turning to walk around the carriage when the door opened revealing the dark interior.
“Get in,” said a voice with a heavy German accent.
Lincoln squinted, trying to make out any details of the indistinct shapes within. He could see two people – two men – but the sun was at such an angle that it reflected off a building across the street, and contrasting with the dark interior of the carriage, it was impossible to glean anything more.
“I would rather not,” Lincoln said, turning to walk away again.
“I think you should,” said the voice. “Your country needs you, and I’m not a man who you want to refuse.”
Although Lincoln had an innate distrust of strangers, especially those who attempted to gather him into a dark coach, he was intrigued. His failed candidacies for both the Vice Presidential nomination in 1856 and for the House of Representatives just two years prior had left him without a means to pursue his political aspirations.
“Come, Mister Lincoln,” said another voice – a familiar voice. “We mean you no ill will. We just want to take a little ride.”
His curiosity getting the better of him, Lincoln pulled himself into the carriage and sat opposite the two men.
The carriage door closed behind him and with window curtains drawn, the interior was as dark as it had appeared from outside. As his eyes adjusted, Lincoln felt the plush velvet covered seat beneath him, smelled stale tobacco and whiskey, signs of opulence and comfortable living. He coughed involuntarily. The carriage began to move down the street.
“What’s all this about then?” he asked. His eyes had adjusted sufficiently to make out that he was seated across from two men, one younger than he, one older. The man on the right – the younger of the two – was smartly dressed in a European-cut suit, and had a slightly menacing air to him.
The man on the right, Lincoln recognized. It was John Bell, former Secretary of War, former Speaker of the House, and current Senator from Tennessee. Lincoln didn’t know the man well, but knew of him.
“Do you recognize me, son?” Bell asked, his southern drawl tempered by years of mingling with the Washington elite.
“You are John Bell,” Lincoln replied. “Yes, I recognize you. How do you do, sir?”
“I am well,” Bell said. He indicated the man to his left. “This is my man, Albert Konigmacher.”
“How do you do, Mr. Lincoln?” Konigmacher asked.
“How do you do?”
Bell continued. “I apologize that I was forced to implement such underhanded tactics. I assure you that under other circumstances, I would have called upon you as a gentleman would.”
“Under what circumstances do we find ourselves?” Lincoln asked.
“These are trying times, Mr. Lincoln. Our nation is at a crossroads. We stand divided, and we all know that a nation divided can not stand.”
“Things do look grave indeed,” Lincoln said.
“Grave!” Bell shouted. “A grave is what we shall all lie in if these troubles are not ended. The South speaks of secession but will not compromise. Those in the North can’t get their heads out of their asses – pardon my language, sir – can’t get their heads out of their asses for long enough to see it.” He paused a moment. “Excuse my outburst, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” Lincoln said. “I understand and share your passion, Mr. Bell, but what would you have me do?”
“You debated Douglas well. I regret I did not personally witness the speeches, but my agents reported to me favorably on your efforts.”
“Little good they did me. I failed election,” Lincoln said glumly.
“Perhaps you failed in that so that you might claim a larger prize,” Bell said.
“Of what do you speak?”
“I’m talking about the Presidency, son,” Bell said. “The Presidency.”
Lincoln shook his head. “One doesn’t go from failure to failure to succeeding at the greatest office.”
“One can. You can. You will.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“There will be four candidates. You will be the Repubicans’ representative. The Southern Dems will choose Breck – who is an ass, by the way – and the Northerners will take Mr. Douglas.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I am quite adept at reading between the lines. And also at reading lines that others would rather I hadn’t access to.”
Lincoln considered this. “You said there would be four candidates.”
“Yes, that fourth is me.”
“You, sir?”
“Yes, me,” Bell replied. “The Whigs are desperate to stay relevant, and they will choose me to lead the charge. I have been around for long enough that they know that I know what I am doing. I have enough friends in Washington to make it happen.”
“Then why would you have me run against you? Why would you have me win?”
“Because he can’t,” Konigmacher interjected.
“Sir?” Lincoln asked, surprised at the blunt response.
“It’s true, Mr. Lincoln,” Bell said. “I simply won’t be able to carry enough of the country in order to win. Without a fourth candidate to split the vote, Douglas will win. Breckenridge will carry the South, have no doubt about that, but these days, that simply does not mean shit – pardon my language again. It is the North that elects presidents. It is Pennsylvania and New York and Ohio that chooses our leaders.”
“And Douglas would win those versus you?”
“Without question.”
Lincoln sat back, digesting this. He lifted the curtain slightly, letting a modicum of light into the carriage. He saw that their route had been a circuitous one and that they were scarcely as far from their origin as he might have walked in the same amount of time.
“Mr. Lincoln,” Konigmacher started. “Douglas can not win. He is a hypocrite and a liar. The worst kind of politician.”
“I thought that was the only kind of politician,” Lincoln replied.
Bell laughed. “You’re far too young to be so jaded, Mr. Lincoln. You are a good man, and you are a good politician. You know me to be the same, or so I hope.”
“I know that you were one of two Southern Senators to vote against Kansas-Nebraska.”
“And you know that Douglas supported the measure; that he wrote that measure. And you know that he cares not about the abolition of slavery, that he would put it to the people of each Territory to decide upon the future of slavery. He would have us be a country united in name only, but with thirty-three nation-states each left to their own devices, deciding upon slavery this week, the consumption of alcohol the next and the right to carry a pistol in public the week after that.” Bell took a deep breath and continued. “If a man was unhappy with the laws in his state, he could simply leave and move to his neighbor. I say, if they are unhappy with the laws in this nation, let them leave and move to another. What then, is the point of this country we have created, if nothing else but to awkwardly carry this bundle of disjointed states from one place to the next? We are too young, sir. We are too young – not yet one hundred now – and too weak to allow this division to continue.”
“You know me to be an abolitionist,” Lincoln said. “Does it not bother you as a Southern gentleman to put me forward as President?”
“I will be honest, sir: I do not care for abolitionists. Yet, it is more important to me that we decide this issue as a nation. Put forward the notion of abolishing slavery and let us all decide upon it. I shall not have the Independent Nation of Kansas, or of Nebraska, or Washington standing apart, spending their own currency and speaking their own damnable national language!” He pounded his fist on the sidewall of the carriage.
“And you believe me to be the one who can keep this nation from falling apart?”
Bell chuckled. “Not at all, son. But there’s not a man on this planet who could do that.”
“Then why?” Lincoln asked.
“Because I believe that you’re the one who can put the damn thing back together.”

Writing at Restaurants

It's the same picture as yesterday!

Well, it might as well be. But trust me, it's new.

Wrote 615ish words at work today. Still have time to pump up today's word count, but I think, and experts agree, that my idea, which seemed so good....is now flimsy. So.... Help! What should I have Lincoln do?

Bah.

And this keyboard, once so lovely....I dunno. It just doesn't feel good. And makes me error-prone, which is annoying. I critique keyboards like Halsted does pens.

Excerpt (and photo) the first

Expect lots of pictures like this again.

So, here we go -- the first words I wrote this year. (~1900 words in about 2.5 hours)

Prologue

November 6th, 1860

Columbus, Ohio

A dark figure crept silently outside the post office in the middle of town. The light from the moon was unable to penetrate the shadows in which he hid. His natural ability to blend into hidden corners served him well as the town square, not 25 yards distant, was filled with all manner of people waiting for news from the election. As the man made his way to the rear of the building, he made no sound, nor left any evidence that he even existed. Reaching the back door, he removed a skeleton key from a pouch at his belt. Quietly, he slipped it into the lock, turned it, and opening the door, he stole inside.
He found himself in the back room of the building, a simple two-room affair. He rolled deftly to his right, leaving him kneeling behind a large wooden cabinet. He peeked around the front edge of this and watched the activity in the adjacent room.
Two men sat at a large desk, wearing blinders and working by lamplight. On the floor between the men lay two large satchels, filled with election ballots from which they drew, one at a time. They worked with professional swiftness and detachment, counting each slip of paper and then destroying it. They did not speak to each other, nor did they give any indication that they were aware of the other’s existence. If they felt any particular emotions about the numbers they wrote, they made no sign.
Assured that the ballot counters were completely focused upon their task, the shadowy man left his hiding place, creeping forward and staying low until he was no less than 10 feet from the desk at which the men worked. From underneath his coat, he produced a satchel, a duplicate of those that lay on the floor. Almost crawling now, he stealthily slid this bag into place at the same time that he removed one of the two original bags. Still undetected, he retreated from the room, and from the building, his mission accomplished.
He stole back around the side of the building. As he walked, a change came over his demeanor and presence. He gradually lost his stealth and invisibility, which in the middle of a public square, such as the one he now found himself standing in, would actually attract attention. He blended in a different manner now, appearing as mundane as the next person, approachable, yet completely forgettable.
Like the men counting the ballots, he was completely impartial to the task he had just performed. That it would change the path of the country in which he resided (he did not call it home; not his country) did not matter to him. It was a job, no more and no less. One man or another would become president, and some men with large sums of money wanted to ensure that their man won the contest, no matter what it took.
The man stepped inside the telegraph office and handed a prewritten telegraph form to the operator. The message contained inside would appear to be an innocuous note concerning the illness of a beloved family member, but to the intended recipients, it would speak volumes more: the deed was done. He put a few coins on the counter and stepped back outside.
And then he disappeared.