In November of 2004, I didn’t write a novel. This is a series of excerpts from all the novels I didn’t write that month.

Sometimes what I crave more than anything are the keys. He used to say that he loved they way they sounded when he tossed them. Like singing. Their collisions in the arc of air shivered down the metal and that shimmer of sound landed flat in his palm.

I would lay them out on the table. Rows of keys thunked methodically so I could compare the teeth, could run my finger along the varying grooves. I was searching for the similarities.

She never understood. She only cared about latches and locks. Ways to make tumblers impassable without keeping anyone out. My bird of paradox.

There had to have been a crisis. Amid all those lockless keys and keyless locks, there must have been a clash. A clanging. A doorbell. Some sort of chaotic alert. There couldn’t have been only a light chinging as she slid the key under the door and rid herself of all access to my life.

In November of 2004, I didn’t write a novel. This is a series of excerpts from all the novels I didn’t write that month.

She was thinking about the way Perry used to whisper across her throat like a silk scarf. Which made her feel naked and uncomfortable. She didn’t trust the touch of silk. It seemed too delicate for her clumsy mouth and fingers.

But this one! This one felt like tree bark. More real, more alive, more immediate beneath her fingertips. Not that she could touch him yet. The more she looked, the more she wanted to run her thoughts between the convolutions of his mind, to find it rough and smooth and solid and fragile (if she knew how to feel the cracks) next to her skin.

And he was speaking to her now. A voice that hid the twittering of small, homey birds. That thrumped with seasons and patience. A smile that rustled in a gust of wind. She leaned against it and sighed.

In November of 2004, I didn’t write a novel. This is a series of excerpts from all the novels I didn’t write that month.

My grandfather, if this old photo is any indication, was not a particularly handsome woman. My grandmother had something of the Hollywood starlet in her look, but my grandfather was little more than dignified-looking in his bold eyeliner and knit cardigans. His jaw and his nose, strong and Scandinavian, did little to enhance his femininity.

Grandpa liked Fortrelle dresses. Sturdy fabric, he said. And it was. I still have one of his dresses hanging in the back of my closet in perfect condition (though slightly musty smelling). He wasn’t much for the showy patterns my grandmother loved. He liked plain, straight lines that flattered his build. And living where he did, he didn’t want to draw much attention to himself.

Not that any of his neighbors made comment about it. That was something I never understood. According to family legend, everyone accepted his odd attire as if it were nothing. All the ladies of the neighborhood would go to Grandpa for tips on the most flattering styles, and Grandpa’s Swedish-tinted voice would praise or scold them depending on the day and according to the dress. Whatever he lacked in beauty, he did make up in style.

Except for his love of Fortrelle. The actual memories I have of Grandpa – not the legends or the colourless photographs, but my times with him – have a rough polyester texture. Sitting on his lap with my head against his chest because he had let me stay up past my bedtime. There was a heartbeat, the push and release of lungs against his ribcage, and that enduring fabric.

In November of 2004, I didn’t write a novel. This is a series of excerpts from all the novels I didn’t write that month.

“Hey, do you remember that time I thought I was in love? But then it turned out I had appendicitis, so I never got a chance to tell him? And then when I came out of surgery, it turned out he hadn’t ever lived here? So it turned out I wasn’t in love after all. But that was pretty funny.”

I stare at her.

“Anyway, I just bring it up because there was this other time that we were taking about relationships and how you didn’t think you’d ever get married. And I told you that I was sure you would find someone some day, but you didn’t believe me. And then it turned out that you were right. Life is so weird!”

I blink.

“Wow. I just realised that I’ve known you since you were thirteen. Remember how awkward grade eight was with Julie Swinton having that enormous crush on you? Didn’t she move away, and you didn’t have to deal with it anymore?”

“That wasn’t – ”

“Wow. I just can’t believe all the time that’s passed. Isn’t life interminably dull sometimes? And then just like that something exciting happens! And all that seems to do is highlight the excruciating boredom of the dull times.”

“Ma’am, would you like to order?”

“Oh, what? Gosh! I haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu. Can you give me a few minutes?”

“Of course,” I reply. I turn and walk back to the kitchen.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to Sid the line cook.

“What? Oh, wow. Did it happen again?” he replied.