It’s Monday morning and I’m considering a new novel, sport-themed, but not directly related to Kasandra Perkins’ death. I am thinking about football, just the games; my husband and I split the wins yesterday, his Packers victorious over the Vikings, my 49ers losing to the Rams. The last couple of weeks have been this way, but I take the losses better; I tend to look at my team as a bunch of dorks when they blow a lead (and a game), hopefully a lesson for them to gnaw on (or to gnaw on them) all week. My husband (bless his heart) suddenly loses all cognizance of football. And when he does remember, it’s that stupid sport.
Yesterday I came up with a new idea, Where The Ball Is, all in the space of about fifteen minutes while watching rain pour from the heavens. I was waiting for football, not wanting to work on Kelly Tremane due to what occurred in Kansas City. Instead I read about David Beckham and the LA Galaxy winning another MLS title. Other than English players from the ’90s and 2000s, I know squat about soccer. But as I read that Landon Donovan might want to take off some time, suddenly I was pondering a new book. By the end of last night’s Cowboys-Eagles game, I had a playlist, characters, even a plot. And when I finish this post, I’ll start writing that book.
I was going to write something this month, thought it would be the end of a NaNo project. Instead, it’s something entirely different. A few of my novels have been this spontaneous, and one of my books is like Kelly Tremane, abandoned not without small guilt, but from necessity. Right now writing about domestic violence just doesn’t feel right. I don’t know what will happen with Kelly Tremane, but I did complete that previously discarded manuscript. Right now I need something easier, and I need to write. I’m in a writing-mode, I can’t just turn that off.
Like my husband can’t just stop watching his Packers, or me with my Niners. Like life keeps churning another sunrise, even if the previous night seemed so dark and heavy. This new book is about a man turning his back from all he has ever known, to find out what else exists. Love waits in an unexpected place, but it has nothing to do with soccer. Finally I’m going to include my beloved American football in a novel, much to Kendall Schultz’s chagrin. He’s a worldwide soccer star, but in his own country, outside the stadium, he’s just another guy.
I had never heard of Landon Donovan until yesterday, and I’m pretty sports-savvy. (I do know about Mia Hamm.) So I think that’s an apropos plot. I need something not mired in abject tragedy, yet sports-themed, and about love. Love does make the world go round, love for others, love for football, whether it’s played with a round ball or one oval-shaped.
Love for a dorky team that got its butt kicked yesterday in St. Louis. Unlike my husband, I clearly recall the 49ers today. I’ve been rooting for them for thirty-one years. That will never change.