The Untitled Thomas Project

Excerpts from a book I am writing.

I'm writing a few books. Actually it's like three books and two stories, but two books in particular I am working on the most right now and one of them I am sharing with whoever wants to read it, section by section, on a separate Substack, in the order each section was written, in draft form. It's a non-linear companion piece to a novel I have been working on for over six years. This particular piece started off as a character story and slowly expanded into a full length book project.

Below is both the the first section and the most recent section I just posted, section 10, of my Untitled Thomas Project: 

(You can find a synopsis of Thomas at the end of this post.)

[Section One]

In the kitchen of an old country farmhouse in Colorado, usually around sunset, Thomas was at the sink, washing the dishes. The early evening sun silhouetted the outlines of his cowboy hat, neck, and shoulders where he stood, glowing in front of the window. There were three windows in the kitchen of his late uncle’s house. The door in the corner had one and a small round table with two chairs sat next to another. He washed the dishes in the quiet, all alone, where every sound heard was made only by him and the creaks and moans of that old house: His boots over the bare wood floors; When he cleared his throat and it echoed down the hall; His fingers pressing onto the keys of the upright piano in the living room; Watering the plants and mumbling to himself. 

When he was at the sink each evening, Thomas thought of things. Mostly about people who had come and gone. Mostly the women he used to know. The most recent one, Clara, was fresh on his mind. She was the one that got away. Twice. Where was she now? Europe somewhere. 

He held onto the image of her sitting at the table behind him, her head turned to the side, looking out the window at the garden outside and the mountains in the distance with her arms lying across the surface of the table and her dark brown eyes drifting off into a perpetual longing. She had long, straight brown hair with heavy bangs that Thomas loved. Her style and personality was different than most and even a little peculiar. She was not easy to pin down, which was another thing he loved about her. She wasn’t typical or expected. She could change the very second you thought you had her figured out. He sort of always knew he couldn’t keep her. She was on her own path. One she had to go on alone. She told him she would come back. How long ago was that? He was still holding his breath. She left behind her dog and her truck, but that didn’t mean she was coming back.

While washing the dishes he couldn’t help remembering her. He couldn’t help remembering a lot of other things and other women too. Other women who had sat where Clara did, in the chair at the table, looking out the window. Virginia: the California blonde who got up in her bare legs and bare feet to go to the fridge to find something to munch on. Beth: the brunette from Brighton that lived in messy buns and was always biting on a pencil, lost in her head and getting up to fill her cup with herbal tea while she looked out past the cupboards, thinking deeply. Daniella: The tall coffee-holic with heaping dark curls who couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes, tapping her toes and tapping her fingers as she was sitting at the table, her chin in one hand, chewing on her tongue and waiting impatiently for something to do. And Anna: the straw-haired one with a little dirt on her face and under her nails, wearing overalls and tall socks, basking in the quiet of the moment and watching him with a soft smile. These were the main players. The ones that stuck around the most, inside his head where they smiled and laughed and held onto his shoulders with brightness in their eyes, giving him that particular look that said, “I love you. You’re perfect. I never want to leave.”

That look fades. It disappears. It just does. In his thirty-four years, Thomas had not yet been blessed with the experience of everlasting love. His longest relationship was with Anna, which lasted a little less than six years. The last couple of years they were together had been lived like they had become a pair of passing acquaintances. She had her own farm to manage and she painted on the side, rarely coming out of the barn to see anyone and spending more time with horses, sheep, pigs, and chickens than she did with him or anyone else. They respected each other, but the desire to spend their lives together just wasn’t there. They were busy doing their own thing. At some point they decided they were better off as friends.

While he washed the dishes and his mind played reruns of the old times in his head, the memories of each girl sitting in his kitchen were happening all at once and it felt just as real as the time each moment had happened before. Each girl sitting at that little round table, looking out the window or at their hands, playing with their fingers or picking at the wood grain, waiting.

Sometimes he didn’t realize he finished the dishes and while the water ran over his hands with the sleeves of his dark blue western shirt rolled up to his elbows, he gazed out of his pale brown eyes at the red-yellow light of the last bit of the day, his thoughts taking him away from where he was. To places he had been or never went. 

In his thoughts he could visit Clara. There she was happy to see him again and never wanted to leave and he could see her smile bigger and brighter than she ever did in real life. He could hold her and comfort her and tell her how much he missed her. He could tell her he loved her like he should have done when she was still at his house and he could ask her not to go or tell her he wanted to go with her. He could have gone with her. Why didn't he go with her? He was trying to let her live her life for herself, by herself, finding her own way, but he still wished he had gone with her.

****

[Section 10]

Life swirls in colors. Especially when you are drunk or sleepy or in a mellow state of mind. Lying on the grass outside, watching the clouds contort themselves across the sky, going in and out of blue. Sitting on the couch, listening to a record spin on the turntable and staring at the blank wall. Eyes blinking, mind thinking, out of focus and nothing specific to care about. Life is breathing. It’s your skin itching. Your tongue tasting. Sound trickling in. Colors and light. Touch and pleasure. Laughing. Getting choked up. Tense and nervous. That rare happiness. You never quite know when it will arrive along with the fear of it ending.

Love. Was it invented? Did we make it up? Love goes together well with sadness. Like close friends. Putting their arms around one another, holding each other up while they walk through your life. The most simple thing in life is still so complicated. We make it that way. With our overthinking. Our fear of losing out. Our tendency to fuck everything up. Life doesn’t need to be held together, but we hold on so tightly. We tense every muscle, even while we sleep at night. So tight. 

If life could really be as simple as it's supposed to be then waking up would be so much easier. Taking a shower and making breakfast. Feeding the dog and going for a walk. Sitting under trees. Getting up and getting lunch. Going to the bathroom. Breathing in and out. Playing some music. Watering the plants. Taking time for dinner. Going slow because it’s okay to. Watching a movie and then going to bed and feeling content in knowing that more than likely, it will all start again. The sun will surely come up and his eyes will open. Most days they do. On the day they don’t he won’t notice because he’ll already be somewhere else. 

What a funny feeling, knowing that the body isn’t permanent, and that you’re here for just a short while. No time at all really. Ten years can feel like a few months. Pets come and go. Family members must say goodbye. Plants wither and die. But after all that, at least for now, the sun and earth and moon keep going. Keep rising and falling. Keep spinning around. For thousands and millions of our lifetimes. It’s such a funny feeling to know how temporary this all is. Thoughts. Words. Movements. Relationships. Being and doing. Finishing one thing and then starting something else. It’s so funny to know that truly nothing matters because no one will remember and everything that ever was will burn in the end. And all that ever really mattered was how you felt at the time. 

Practice smiling more. Things always get better. That’s one of the things Thomas knew for sure. That things always got better. Knowing that kept him from falling apart. If something bad happened he didn’t worry as much about it because he knew it would get better. Just when you think something really bad will never end, that’s when the clouds break and all of a sudden it’s sunny again. So, Thomas knew that on cloudy days the sun was still there. He didn’t have to wonder because it was always true. The sun is always there. Even if you can’t see it that day. Or that moment. It’s still there.

****

The synopsis of The Untitled Thomas Project is all about the life and relationships and the encounters that a young-ish man named Thomas has had. He wanders around his old farmhouse remembering times passed and goes on long walks ruminating over a particular girl he loved and may have lost. A girl named Clara. Clara is the lead character of the other novel I am working on and Thomas started off as a side character in that novel. In order to finish the Clara novel I needed to understand Thomas better and that was when I started to write the character study and through that process more and more came out turning the study into a full fledged book idea. The story begins with us getting to know Thomas and as it goes on the scenes get more elaborate, dialogue starts to trickle in, and dreams and metaphysical things start to happen in between memories and quiet moments alone in that old farmhouse.

For right now I have my Book Drafts Substack available through invite only. The only thing you have to do to be invited is to give me your email address over at Instagram @maryanneinthewoods or email me at porterme@gmail.com. Otherwise I may share individual sections of it on here periodically. And maybe even pieces of other things I am writing too sometimes. After posting section 10 of Thomas I decided to take a short break and not post section 11 until June. From there I will send out a new section on Tuesday, three weeks each month, taking the last week off. Once I add your email address you can access all past sections on the Substack site to catch up.

I'll be back with another MaryAnne in the Woods Newsletter later this week. I think it will be about my blurry eyesight and what it means to me in a metaphysical sense.

MaryAnne