random
I feel horribly cranky.
I am closing in on the end of the 3rd revision of Touch. I decided to chop an entire thread of plot - about 4,000 words. When it was out I realized nothing was really lost and a lot was gained, so I'm glad I made the cut. However, it left me some loose ends that need to be threaded back together. I'm sure the story will be stronger for it -
- however I've been fighting a migraine all weekend and my spirits are sagging. So while I'm awake and coherent at my computer this evening, all I could do was stare at the page and think... bah.
Still, I finished off a 1200-word scene that's been on my mind for awhile, and I like it. And making that cut was work, too. I feel accomplished today.
Hopefully I will pick up with Kate and her repressed feelings in Chapter 31 tomorrow morning. If not, you will likely see me post something lamenting my stubborn muse. Either way, I should be around, because as of tomorrow I will be a regular attendant at my local Starbucks, where I shall partake of over-hyped coffee and free internet for two hours, three days a week, while my offspring attends preschool.
Preschool.
Um, what else.
Meh. Good enough.
She got to the main road. She was awake now. She was thinking of last night, of Roark, of the man outside the bar, of fear. She was thinking of Steve and the car surrounded by evergreens that were not green but bone white in the beam of Steve’s headlights. She was thinking of the hard floor of her house, of pain and the gnawing empty pit inside her that nothing seemed to fill.
She was thinking of that kitten, round and warm in the palm of her hand. So small, so soft.
She is sitting on the floor holding this tiny little orange thing, and Jason is mumbling about poets and irony.
Sylvia, he says. It’s perfect. Hilarious.
Perfect.
She was still standing on the corner. Traffic rushed by at her feet, fast and harsh and deadly.
“Damn it.”
Kate turned around and started walking back towards the house. She cut across the neighbor’s lawn, peering under hedges and into crawl-spaces.
“Puss-puss,” she cried. “Here, kitty-kitty.”
Nothing.
Kate circled around her narrow, cast-off fingernail crescent of a backyard. “Puss-puss! Where are you, you little bastard? Come here!”
When she reached her front walk again, Kate closed her eyes and sighed. This is pointless. It’s just a cat, she thought.
It’ll come back if it wants to.
Another car roared past.
Kate crossed the street and headed deeper into the neighborhood.
Forget it. I have to get to work.
She turned down another side street. “Sylvia!” Another. “Sylvia!”
“Are you okay?”
Kate looked up. On the other side of the street, a group of students stood at the base of a driveway, paused on their way to class.
“I lost my cat,” she told them.
All of the kids began to look in different directions, their faces concerned, watchful, comical even, in their eagerness to help.
“What does she look like?” one of the girls asked.
“He’s… he’s orange,” Kate replied. “He’s very orange.”
“Sorry! We haven't seen him. We’ll keep an eye out!”
Kate watched the kids ambling away. She was beginning to suspect it was later than she realized. She had slept hard the night before.
She had slept. Really slept.
She needed to get to work.
He’ll come home if he wants to.
I am closing in on the end of the 3rd revision of Touch. I decided to chop an entire thread of plot - about 4,000 words. When it was out I realized nothing was really lost and a lot was gained, so I'm glad I made the cut. However, it left me some loose ends that need to be threaded back together. I'm sure the story will be stronger for it -
- however I've been fighting a migraine all weekend and my spirits are sagging. So while I'm awake and coherent at my computer this evening, all I could do was stare at the page and think... bah.
Still, I finished off a 1200-word scene that's been on my mind for awhile, and I like it. And making that cut was work, too. I feel accomplished today.
Hopefully I will pick up with Kate and her repressed feelings in Chapter 31 tomorrow morning. If not, you will likely see me post something lamenting my stubborn muse. Either way, I should be around, because as of tomorrow I will be a regular attendant at my local Starbucks, where I shall partake of over-hyped coffee and free internet for two hours, three days a week, while my offspring attends preschool.
Preschool.
Um, what else.
Meh. Good enough.
She got to the main road. She was awake now. She was thinking of last night, of Roark, of the man outside the bar, of fear. She was thinking of Steve and the car surrounded by evergreens that were not green but bone white in the beam of Steve’s headlights. She was thinking of the hard floor of her house, of pain and the gnawing empty pit inside her that nothing seemed to fill.
She was thinking of that kitten, round and warm in the palm of her hand. So small, so soft.
She is sitting on the floor holding this tiny little orange thing, and Jason is mumbling about poets and irony.
Sylvia, he says. It’s perfect. Hilarious.
Perfect.
She was still standing on the corner. Traffic rushed by at her feet, fast and harsh and deadly.
“Damn it.”
Kate turned around and started walking back towards the house. She cut across the neighbor’s lawn, peering under hedges and into crawl-spaces.
“Puss-puss,” she cried. “Here, kitty-kitty.”
Nothing.
Kate circled around her narrow, cast-off fingernail crescent of a backyard. “Puss-puss! Where are you, you little bastard? Come here!”
When she reached her front walk again, Kate closed her eyes and sighed. This is pointless. It’s just a cat, she thought.
It’ll come back if it wants to.
Another car roared past.
Kate crossed the street and headed deeper into the neighborhood.
Forget it. I have to get to work.
She turned down another side street. “Sylvia!” Another. “Sylvia!”
“Are you okay?”
Kate looked up. On the other side of the street, a group of students stood at the base of a driveway, paused on their way to class.
“I lost my cat,” she told them.
All of the kids began to look in different directions, their faces concerned, watchful, comical even, in their eagerness to help.
“What does she look like?” one of the girls asked.
“He’s… he’s orange,” Kate replied. “He’s very orange.”
“Sorry! We haven't seen him. We’ll keep an eye out!”
Kate watched the kids ambling away. She was beginning to suspect it was later than she realized. She had slept hard the night before.
She had slept. Really slept.
She needed to get to work.
He’ll come home if he wants to.