7,000 words

       Breakthrough this morning!  I get what Murakami was talking about in his correlary between running and writing.  There's a point you just feel like a runner, there's probably a point you feel like a writer.  This is the first time in my life my complete lack of identity has come in handy, it's like a lightning rod for observations.  There has to be a point that you feel like a writer, and even that epiphany is at best a subtle change.  Like a new tattoo or a branding, a hazing or an initiation which can't be voluntarily taken.  You can't lie to yourself, and if there's a soul it's the thing that stops dealing with the much more interesting subconscious celestial world, turns to you for a quick second and says "Ok!" with a thumbs up at the waist so his divine party doesn't see.  The soul is self conscious too.  It's like charming a snake, you have to ease it out of its comfort zone against its will but while it still has its eye open.  Attempting to explain things doesn't help you understand them, but it gives you that stream of consciousness you're looking for.  This block of text is a couple of hundred words.  Atleast 1,000 a day.
         I achieved the level of running today that Murakami describes as what you should be attempting to reach in writing.  When you feel like you can keep going, but you stop.  That's always the best point to stop, he says.  No point to wearing yourself out.  It's always harder to get started than it is to finish, because there's no end.  Stating the obvious, but the more you hear it the better.  Have to believe you can hammer the facts you want to believe into your mind until they stick without you having to think about them. 
         Also, that temporary confidence you feel from doing work only lasts until you go for coffee with an ex girlfriend.  They will still destroy you.  Then you're up all night from getting that giant iced latte thinking about it, and you don't get any work done.  Duly noted.  (Not you, Catherine)
         On a completely unrelated note, NBA 2k12 comes out tonight.  Videogames are getting to the point where they don't need sequels anymore, they're taking on a life of their own.  Each new volume in the log is like a vampire with better life-sucking time consuming destructive powers.  If I miss a day to a thousand words, it'll be tomorrow.
        Also, Monster.com works if you're looking for a job.  But I specifically put "No sales positions, do not want to do sales", and I'm getting all of these personalized emails from people asking me to do sales stuff.
      

          “Hold that!”  You hear your managers voice call out, as it shuts with you and the old decrepit bag of bones standing inside.  You try to dodge around the lady to press the door hold button, although you would prefer not to, but the doors close and you’re lifted into the terrace garden.  She’s going to race up the stairs and lash out at you like a broken tibia through the skin.

            Lucky for you, the pulley system fails, and you are trapped indefinitely before floors one and two.  An elevator which has the simple task of going from one floor to the next fails in the middle.  Ok, probably should have just used the stairs.

            “This is just technical difficulties,”  You assure her.  The patter of feet above sounds like children running on top of a car with snow shoes on.  “They know what they are doing.”  You lie to yourself, and perch in the corner of the square box indefinitely suspended by dental floss. 

            The old lady smells like elaborate hats and ass ointments.  “I hope this doesn’t take too long!”  She moans in a exhausted vibrato as she slowly consolidates all of her creaky limbs into a pile on the floor of the elevator.  You reach over to console her and immediately pull your hand back, but let out a feeble noise which his an attempt at “hey”.

            You get up to look professional if the doors open.  Most attendants working here have rich aunts and uncles, putting you on the bottom of the totem pole.  You’re the one foot tall one supporting to the two and three feet tall ones that are standing completely outstretched on their toes.  To make it wors,e your hands are on your face and you’re sticking your tongue out, so their entire weight is supported by the crux of your back.  You hesitatingly reach out to hit the emergency call button, knowing full well the maintenance crew will probably just make fun of you.

            “Who’s this?” A tinny authoritative voice wisecracks through the speakers.

            “Does it matter?  I’m trapped with a client in the elevator.”

            “Yeah?  What am I supposed to do about it?  Me and the boys are town here hauling shit around, kicking ass and taking names.  We aren’t up there parading around with old ladies.”

            “You should do your jobs and fix the problem.”  You say, directing a creepy self satisfied smile toward the old lady.  She looks away, unimpressed and confused.

            “Well, good luck with that.”  The maintenance guy says.  A bunch of hammering a laughing is going on behind him, and then the intercom cuts out all together.

            It’s been an hour.  Why did this place bother building an elevator in a manmade structure?  How is it that you can see the sunlight, but there isn’t an escape hatch to let you out?  How long will this old lady last?  You had a Snickers bar in your pocket you were planning on eating the setting this lady got past on to your bosses, but now seems as good a time as any.  You break it in half and offer to split it with her, but she looks disgusted.  Whatever deal was going to get made with this lady, it’s not happening now. 

            The air starts getting stale and the already condensed space starts to feel a little squishy after hour 3.  The support phone rings, one of your bosses must have comandeered the phone in the maintenance tunnels.

            “Can she hear me?  Is this an intercom system?”  Terry asks.  You think it’s Terry.  They kind of all sound the same.  She’s the one that gave you that sandwich on the first day when you forgot your lunch on the bus.  Or, it could be Nancy.  Nancy is the one that wouldn’t assist you when the vending machine took your money.

            “No?  How can I answer that without…”  You started.  “No… speaker phone.”  You asserted, slyly.

            “Listen, try to keep her happy.”  The voice on the phone continues.  The older lady reaches out for you to help her up, but you wave her off.  She is obviously trying to get control of the situation and get to the phone.  The direness of the situation may have dampened her spirits just a little bit.  “If you somehow emerge from there with her and the package intact, you’ve just wiggled yourself into the bosses good graces.”

            “Will do, ma’am.”  You hang up the phone. 

            The package?  Unsure how you hadn’t noticed it the whole time, sure enough she had a package poorly concealed inside her purse. 

            With a new sense of purpose, you apologize for not helping her up a minute earlier.  She looks up with wrinkled doe eyes and weakly asks, “What did they say?”

            “They say the elevator is hanging on by a thread and that we could die at any moment.  They also wonder what you could possibly be concealing inside of your purse a a time like this.”

            “They know what is in the package, fool.” She broke radio silence.  “Why they thought a fool like you would even be useful as a human shield is beyond me, however.”

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”  You began, shaking your head.  “I was just having a little joke, trying to lighten up the atmosphere, honestly.”  You assure her.  “We hadn’t even spoken yet, and like it or not, we’re in this together.”

            She stared blankly at the control panel in front of the door, pleading with an unseen elevator God for quick release.  You walk up to the panel and begin hitting all the buttons repeatedly.  Sometimes holding a few of them in together, pressing the same one 10 times in a row, at one point holding the alarm button down which rings a loud bell but serves no mechanical purpose. The elevator begins creaking and making spastic noises, and you can tell if you put your weight into one side you might be able to get the thing swinging left and right.  She rushes toward you in an attempt to pry you from the controls, but you easily hold her off with one hand while you continue to jam on the controls.

            The doors suddenly pry themselves partially open, just far enough to see that the shaft is supported by a wooden frame.  This is an old fashioned rollercoaster kind of elevator.  

  

            I'm getting sort of better.  The tricky thing is trying to think of something to happen, obviously.  The trickier part is having dialogue and coming up with intentions for different characters.  But that should all naturally work itself out over time, probably.  Anyway, Day 7 over!  See ya tomorrow.