The Documents of Hector Maze: 1.4

This had to be considered good news. For me, that is. I hadn’t had any work for a while, and consequently was broke and restless. This sounded like a good prospect and I was glad of it, but also a bit apprehensive. Work is always such a hassle. It means I have to go places I’d never normally go, deal with people I’d usually avoid, experience their many unique varieties of bullshit. Not that I have anything against people, at least in theory. But being around them is hard. It sucks energy, and I don’t have any to spare.

The Documents of Hector Maze: 1.3

Do you believe that one day, the phone will ring, and it will be fate on the other end, calling you forth to your destiny? Of course you don’t. It’s a ridiculous thing to believe. I certainly didn’t believe it then, and I can’t really say that I do now. But in hindsight, it’s hard to deny that this was just such a phone call.

It was a man’s voice. Husky, low-pitched, accented, authoritative, but with a note of some kind of contradiction — confidence subtly undermined.

“Mr. Maze,” it said, “my name is Kaspar Rubelcaba. Martin Andersen gave me your name.” And then there was a pause.

The Documents of Hector Maze: 1.2

I wake up very slowly. In fact, some days I do not accomplish it at all. Some days I come to around dusk, somewhat startled, realizing that I’ve gone about the day’s affairs on automatic pilot, and wondering what if anything they consisted of.

But this is relatively rare. More often I manage to achieve an acceptable level of sentience about halfway through my first cup of coffee, as the little caffeine demons race around waking up the various parts of my brain like a camp cook rousing men in a bunkhouse.

The Documents of Hector Maze: 1.1

The call had come at six in the morning. I am not awake then, of course, even on a particularly good morning. And I was not having a particularly good morning.

I woke up around 9:45, rolled over, and went back to sleep. I dreamt of water, specifically of the time I ran full-tilt into an oncoming wave and got hit harder than I thought possible, spilled end over end into the ice-cold surf to come up spitting salt and gasping for air, shocked to still be alive. And on that appropriate note I finally opened my eyes and looked around.

The Plan

This November, like several Novembers in recent years, is National Novel Writing Month. With that in mind, I have decided to dust off my long-dormant Great Work of Fiction, post the first few chapters here, and see if I can’t get some momentum going. Your comments will of course be much appreciated.