Bar Song

There's a fire in your eyes,
and I hope you let it burn.

Why I haven't been blogging much:

Those of you who remember my new year promises,
recall the 'finish a novel one'?
I'm working on it.
i know that I'm 16, I'm young, I'm inexperienced,
but what better reasons to write one?
this is how I'll learn.

my main character, much to my dismay, is named George.
forgive me, i didn't want that name. he just told me so. i tried changing it, but changing the name changed him. i fought this battle for many days, with Ee by my side in spirit and cell phone, trying to coax a new name out of him.
End result was frustration on my part, and victory in his.

George, being my first important main character, my first character I am actually paying attention to, is consuming my time. You may find me slightly obsessed with him. I have a book dedicated to his story. A sketch pad to what he looks like, why he looks like that. another book for questions I have, and the few answers i get.
"would he be different if his job was any different?" yes of course he would be, but how..?
"does he like houseplants?"
"do his kids look like him? if not, does that bother him at all?"
"he bowls. why?"
"does he smoke? did he ever? why is he an alcoholic?"

etc.
You can be certain to hear from me and George on a fairly regular basis. For now, I'll give you a little piece of what I've written.


Bar Song.

-Having spent the time it took him to get from his office to here, with his head firmly down, and his brain occupied with his phone call, he neglected to look to see if the door he has opening and thusly walked into, was indeed the correct one.
Apparently, it was not.
"Don, I'm going to have to call you back"
"Sure George, don't forget Monday."
Without bothering to acknowledge the reminder, George snapped his phone shut and looked around.
The lights were not so harsh on his eyes, now that the shock from the grey day outside sudden;y being replaced was gone.
First was the realization of where he wasn't.
Then, the shock of where he had ended up.

This was not Jack's bar, his usual Tuesday haunt for after work pre-happy hour drinks.
This wasn't any bar.
There wasn't any alcohol here at all.

This was a flower shop.
Somehow, in his preoccupied state, his feet and lead him to her; to the last place he felt capable of being.