Writer's Block (a haiku)

blank thoughts, blank white page

opportunity brings death

to inspiration 

Just when I’m presented with a significant stretch of uninterrupted time in which to write and create, the unthinkable has happened...I’ve fallen victim to a paralyzing case of writer's block. Opportunity, it seems, is an opportunist, lying in wait, the thief of creative thought and motivation. Hours of the past week have been spent in front of the screen and the page, yet they have netted very little in terms of actual literary substance. Eventually able to eke out a paragraph, I revisit it only to discover it is complete and utter codswallop. The haiku above is the only complete written work I've been able to formulate, and it, in and of itself, is nothing to write home about.

If I’ve learned anything this week, it’s that inspiration seems makes itself known to me in the busyness of a typical day… the feeding, shuffling and raising of kids, household maintenance and the running of errands, the attending to studies, supervision of homework, making of dinner, bath times, bedtimes, on and on and on. On days like these, phrases and ideas appear as lightning bugs on a summer night, points of illumination momentarily materializing and ripe for the capture. Given the unstructured luxury of spring break, however, and I find myself staring down the dark depths of a well of words that has run dry. Oh well, maybe next week…

Infinitely Precious Things and Word Count Wednesday

When you're younger and a relationship is ending, there is a cleanness to the break. No doubt it's painful, devastating even, but there is a clear divide between together and separate. Conversely, when you've built a life over 15 years with a person and introduced other, more vulnerable lives and shared responsibilities, no such clear distinction exists. Life feels messy and scary and relentless, sad, confusing and practical. We are a loving family but former lovers. We are cordial but not confidants. We are parents but not partners. Our past is a well-worn shoe but the path ahead is masked in mystery.

I took some time away this past weekend and had about 30+ hours to myself...a rare event for a mother of two young children. It was a mixed bag of emotions; a dichotomy of independence and loneliness, freedom and bondage. My entire adult life has been a shared experience. Personal space does not exist for a stay at home parent. Even if you lock the bathroom door, chances are a kid is waiting for you on the other side, ear to the tile floor, peering under the door. So this weekend was a lesson in solitude. I woke up alone, ran the beachside boardwalk alone, ate in a sushi bar alone, wandered the shops alone. It was...lonely. But it was also holy. You see, the years I've spent surrounded by other people have not necessarily been less lonely, just more occupied. I felt seen but unknown. Consumed but not satisfied.

I read a quote in one of the cute boutiques that line Main St. in Ventura. "Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you." -Oscar Wilde (emphasis added) There has been a lot of loss in this season, but there has been so much gain. The loneliness I felt this weekend was a more pure form of loneliness than what I've felt in the past. It was a loneliness born out of a physical actuality of being alone, and not the more personal isolation that comes with feeling misunderstood or unknown. In the past year, I have discovered so very many infinitely precious things about myself that are very much worth the price that requires more physical alone-ness in a place where I am not as lonely.

What am I currently working on?
I've started working on a narrative piece that has more of a topical blog-post tone with supporting history thrown in. It's something between a narrative essay and a journal entry. It's not finished yet but I may post it when it's done.

Word Count: 853

How do I feel about the process?
Good, but I wish I was dedicating more time to it. I really want to get back to my narrative story now that I've received feedback, but haven't found the time or made it a huge priority. Hopefully the break from classes next week will allow for that.

What am I currently reading? 
I am feverishly trying to catch up on On Writing, while squirreling away as many of King's helpful writing hints as possible.
I also spent most of the weekend reading this great blog series called Blue Babies Pink. It is a personal narrative by a Christian man named Brett Trapp and his journey as a gay man in a life that doesn't allow for the truth of who he is. I am a HUGE fan of when people share their personal journeys openly. Brett has a unique perspective because he bridges the gap between two often opposing subcultures. He does not speak with an agenda in mind, but merely shares his journey. It's a powerful testimony that I think does a lot to silence those who are stuck in the way they believe things should be rather than the way that they actually are. It wasn't a short read...44 installments...but if you are into that kind of transparency, I'd highly recommend it.

Word Count Wednesday

What am I currently working on?

Unfortunately, a whole lotta nada. This week has really gotten away from me and I haven't felt motivated or inspired to write. I do have plans to write this weekend and I hope to continue the narrative that I share in my previous post.

Word Count: 0 😩

What am I currently reading?

Since I happened to have sole control of the remote this week, I opted to binge watch Lena Dunham's Girls after the kids went to sleep rather than read anything. Again, not making many strides in this department either. I will say, however, that the level of storytelling and character development is inspiring to the creative process so all is not lost!

How do I feel about the process?

Meh. I'm tired this week, but hearing my classmates read their narratives and unique ideas is always inspiring. I carry around a notebook to, in theory, capture ideas that come up throughout the day to day, but I need to be better about using it. You never know when the next spark of creative genius may hit!

Chapter One (Narrative Assignment)

I sat in the car as it idled, and let the windows down to invite in the nocturnal symphony waking up in the field fenced off before me. Moments earlier, the sun had slipped past the edge of the earth and left the sky behind me awash in rapidly fading hues of orange and pink. Almost as if she were avoiding an accidental run-in with a former lover, the moon now peeked cautiously up over the opposing horizon and I watched her full-bellied ascension over the darkening landscape. Stretched to the repletion of her boarders, she burst with the pregnant anticipation of a woman on the verge of motherhood, glowing and determined in her purpose. The combination of the sun’s recent departure and the heaviness of the air colored her face in a rosy luminance. Called a Strawberry Moon, she was made even more remarkable as her arrival this year fell on the summer solstice. Though the daylight had held her at bay for an exceptionally long phase of time, the night now made way for her stunning debut. She held the world captive at her feet.

Warm air wafted in the windows as I took in her performance. Her last appearance had taken place nearly a half-century before during the summer of 1967. It was the same year that the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco found itself filled with a sudden and large-scale influx of long-haired, uninhibited hippies, my free-spirited mother among them, seeking to free their minds, free their bodies and free society from its iron grip of outdated beliefs. It was an assemblage of lovers, of boundary-pushers, of drugged-out idealists largely disillusioned with the path laid before them by generations past.

Growing up, my mother often talked about the friendships she made while dancing in the moonlight to “The Mamas & the Papas.” I loved listening to the stories she spun while trying to reconcile the bath-robed woman before me who poured my cereal and packed my lunches as the same one who, at twenty, hitch-hiked across four states and wore flowers in her waist-length wavy hair. It had been called the Summer of Love, a widespread collective call for peace, understanding and transcendence for all who craved this type of freedom in their lives.

This evening, as I sat alone and captivated by the same spectacular moon that had shone over my mother during the summer that most defined her youth, I was becoming aware that this summer would be the Summer of my Undoing.

*******************************************

When I was twenty, I fell in love for the first time. He was clean-cut and olive-skinned and when he spoke, optimism poured out of him like a late-August monsoon in the desert. He was most unlike the other boys who frequented the same nicotine-stenched sober meeting halls that I did. His presence there was not motivated by a prolonged and soul-crushing trip to the end of his integrity, as mine had been. Rather, his motivation began by bedding a recovering addict who stated she could not marry a non-sober non-Jew, so he simultaneously started attending 12-step meetings with his classes on converting to Judaism. Their relationship fizzled, as did his interest in conversion, but he figured not drinking could only help him in the long run. So every Friday night, we sat in the same meeting halls, catching glances at each other across the room and listening to dry drunks desperately convince themselves they had kicked it for good this time.

“I like what you shared tonight,” he called out to me one evening over the crowd of alcoholics spilling out into the parking lot. The evening air was cool and still, but his words ran over me like a warm breeze.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” I said, stepping past the line of cigarettes being lit around me and feeling a bit light-headed from the second-hand smoke and sudden quickening in my chest. “I don’t actually remember what I said, but it’s good to know someone got something out of it.”

He chuckled and the light from the half-moon hanging above us glinted in his eyes. “Well, if I’m being honest, I don’t really remember either, but I liked the way your voice sounded as you spoke. Quiet but direct. Very calming actually. I don’t know if you noticed, but Harry stopped twitching for a full five minutes after you finished.”

I laughed. Harry was what we referred to as a ‘wet brain.’ Even though he had picked up a six-month chip several weeks ago, he still appeared to be some combination of perpetually intoxicated and hungover. I’d have thought Harry a liar if not for the fact that he was transported to and from every meeting by a van emblazoned with the logo “Sobriety Saves” along with the information of a local half-way house. Personal experience told me those places only let you back in if you can pass a breathalyzer at the entrance. If Harry was still living there, he was as sober as a man who had downed Jack Daniels for breakfast, lunch and dinner the past thirty years could be. Some of us just take longer to dry out than others.

“But seriously, Liv. You do have a lot of insight to share. How long have you been coming here?”

“I’m coming up on a year and a half, I think, but I was in and out for a while before that.” I answered, momentarily confused about how he already knew my name before remembering my introduction as “Liv, the alcoholic” during the meeting. “How about you? I mean, I’ve seen you around for a bit, but never actually heard you speak.”

“I’ve got a little over six years. I used to go to the 7 o’clock group on 3rd, but my ex-girlfriend acquired that one in the divorce decree,” he joked, running his fingers through the dark folds of his hair before extending his hand towards me. “I’m Sam by the way.”

I took his proffered grasp and as our skin met for the first time, my stomach somersaulted with excitement and I thought I might throw up. How similar the effects of intoxication feel whether imbued from a sudden rush of endorphins or several shots of Everclear. All at once, the strangest sensation washed over my body. I’d heard it said that when you meet the one, you just know. In that moment, encircled in a haze of smoke and anticipation, I knew I would marry Sam.

Our love affair began in the same way I imagine that most do, an all-consuming fire of passion coupled with the fog of infatuation that blinds even the most reasonable of victims. I was happy to ignore the decade of difference between our births and he was happy to look past the sordid history of a person who spent more of her senior year of high school in rehab than actually attending classes. He didn’t look at me the way the people who lived with me through that part of my life did: disappointed, disgusted, and braced for my next failure. When I looked at Sam, I saw safety, security and path that led very far away from where and who I’d been. The most remarkable thing about him, however, was that he loved me back and, for a broken woman like me, that one thing alone appeared to be the solution to the problem of myself that I had been looking for. Sam’s love felt like an open window in a dark and stale room and I basked in the fresh air and sunlight of his adoration.

But, as it turns out, love can be an unjust god, favoring the demands of the heart over the hesitations of the mind. Now, fifteen years later as I sat watching the moon, I was acutely aware that the sun only shines for a predestined amount of time before the night takes over.

Word Count Wednesday

What am I currently working on?
I have continued to work on my narrative that I will be submitting next week. I started another chapter but not in sequential order. I'm hoping that if I just follow my inspiration, I won't have to struggle as much with coming up with material. Who knows.

Narrative Word Count: 977, plus an undetermined amount of rewriting.

I also did the exercise that I shared in my previous post from On Writing, entitled Fun with Dick and Jane. Word Count: 2880

How am I feeling about the process?
Fairly good, but a little frustrated too. I got a little stuck in my second chapter of my narrative. It's a story about a woman who is reevaluating the life she's built and her beliefs. It begins at the beginning of the end of her marriage and the events that surround that sort of catapult her into this new life whether she's ready for them or not. It seems easier so far to write the climactic or dramatic parts of the story, but I'm a little unsure how to tie them all together.

What am I currently reading?
Mostly On Writing. The biggest thing I took away from my latest reading was to not spend so much time plotting out how everything will go. It's easy to make the story feel forced that way. I tried his suggestion to just have the idea and characters in place and just see what happens. I actually really liked discovering the story that way and I think it came out decent at least.

Fun with Dick and Jane (Exercise from On Writing)

While I have been enjoying reading Stephen King's On Writing, it has, in parts, left me with a bit of insecurity as to whether I have what it takes to be a writer. Maybe I'm alone in this, but I've always thought that one day I would create some body of work that would be note-worthy and appreciated by the masses. This hope sometimes reminds me of my childhood idealism that told me I could be anything I chose to be, even if my dream was to be a famous singer despite the fact that God overlooked me in the vocal department.

In his section On Writing, King outlines a history and set up for a story scenario. He then suggests we twist the characters and take the story to see where it goes. Don't plot it out, let the characters dictate the direction of the story. Since I've been having a bit of writer's block, I thought this might be a good exercise to try. Here goes nothing...

Dick took the steps two at a time as he climbed the cement stairway to the front door of the red-bricked brownstone apartment. His 4 o’clock meeting at the ad agency had run long and he had to sprint the four blocks in order to make it to the daycare before 5pm. Mrs. Gunnery had a strict policy of charging an extra fee for late pick-ups and, though he had been able to bring in some extra money with his latest campaign, every dollar counted when it came to raising a child on his own.

Nell was sitting cross-legged on the floral carpet when Dick peeked his head into the playroom. She was busy building a tower of alphabet blocks that wavered precariously with each new addition. A boy Dick knew was named Benjamin hopped carelessly towards Nell, stopping just short of the leaning tower. The force of his steps was enough to jostle the floorboards, though, and it sent the blocks toppling down. Nell looked up at Benjamin, her face reflecting a mixture of confusion, disappointment and anger. Dick watched helplessly from the doorway as she leveled a fist and punched the boy square in the gut.

“Nell!” Dick and Mrs. Gunnery yelled simultaneously as poor Benjamin doubled over onto the floor in shock and pain. Dick darted into the room and grabbed Nell’s arm before she could reposition herself for a second blow.

“Mr. Olafson, I cannot tolerate this type of behavior in my daycare! You need to teach Nell to control herself. We do NOT touch our friends in unkind ways!” Mrs. Gunnery was as red in the face as the child still attempting to regain his breath on the floor below.

“Of...of course, Mrs. Gunnery. Please forgive us. Nell was just upset about her blocks is all.” Dick explained as he wrestled the little girl into his lap. “Now, Nella,” he said, turning to his daughter, “You owe Benjamin an apology. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to knock them down.”

Nell looked up into her father’s face. The anger that had flashed across it so fiercely moments earlier was gone and the realization that she was in trouble was settling in. Nell stared at Benjamin, who was busily being comforted by a slightly frantic Mrs. Gunnery. Standing from Dick’s lap, Nell walked over to the crying child and hugged him from behind. Dick knew Nell was sorry. He was sure that she hadn’t meant to hurt the boy. Nell’s short temper was an inherited trait from her mother. The tantrums had eased in the months since his ex-wife Jane had been away, but violent outbursts occasionally reared their ugly heads now and again.  

After apologizing profusely and making sure Benjamin was alright, Dick took Nell by the hand and they walked out into the late afternoon sun. The weather had begun to warm up, making the short walk home especially pleasant. Nell skipped a few steps ahead and pointed out the different flowers that had begun to bloom in recent weeks. Dick loved to watch the way his daughter discovered the world around her. The first couple years of her life had been rocky to say the least. Jane had suffered from severe post-partum depression and Dick would often return home from work to find his daughter in front of the tv in an hours-old soiled diaper, his wife either asleep in the darkened bedroom or sitting in the base of the shower with cold water pouring over her pruning body.

When Dick would finally snap her out of her near comatose state, Jane would cry and insist that she had only just fallen asleep or had only been in the shower for a few minutes. After several weeks, Dick finally called the doctor and, with the aid of prescription medication, Jane seemed to be improving. About six months later, things seemed so good in fact that Dick and Jane decided she no longer needed the medication and she promptly stopped taking it.

It didn’t take long, however, for things to go south. Just before Nell’s first birthday, Dick was promoted to head of advertising in his department, a career jump that provided a significant raise in pay but also required longer hours working closely with his female boss. At first, Jane seemed supportive, but after a month or two of late evenings, she began to get needy, calling his cell incessantly until he answered, showing up disheveled at his office with Nell dragged behind her like a doll. Jane’s irritated franticness would quickly turn to relief and adoration as Dick assured her he’d be home as soon as possible, but he was rapidly growing concerned with the behavior of his wife.

One night, after a dinner meeting he had hosted with his boss for a prospective client, Dick returned home to find Jane standing in the kitchen with a large butcher knife. She had piled all of his work shirts in a lump on the table and was repeatedly stabbing into it, stopping just long enough to unstick the blade from the wood underneath. When she noticed Dick in the doorway, she lunged at him, screaming accusations of his infidelity and other nonsensical paranoia. Thankfully, a neighbor had overheard the commotion and Dick was able to subdue her just as the police barged through the door.

The weeks Jane spent hospitalized following the incident left her with a new diagnosis: paranoid schizophrenia. Jane was resistant to the medication, claiming it made her feel numb, so the next nine months were spent in and out of psychiatric hospitals. The more inconsistent her treatment was, the worse her paranoia and psychotic episodes became, until finally Dick had decided enough was enough.

The day after Dick filed for divorce, Jane had shown up at his work while he was out at lunch. Refusing to believe Amanda the receptionist when she stated he was out of the office, Jane attacked, savagely beating her until several of Dick’s coworkers were able to pull her off the now unconscious Amanda. Jane was arrested and charged with attempted murder. Her attorney negotiated a lengthy stay at Edgecomb State Hospital. Dick quit his job at the agency and began freelancing while caring for Nell full time. It had been a rough few years, but things were finally starting to look up.

“Daddy,” Nell squealed, catching her father around the legs and smiling up at him, “I picked you a red one!” and she handed him the petals of a freshly plucked begonia.

“Awe! Thank you baby!” Dick reached down and scooped Nell into his arms. “Why don’t we save these to give to Leah at her birthday party? We’ll stop there before we head home.” Nell squealed with excitement and wriggled out of her father’s arms. Very little else excited a four year old than the idea of a birthday party.

When they arrived at Leah’s house, Nell was instantly overtaken by the excitement of the balloons and colored sugar. Dick barely had time to get in the door before she was swept up in the mix of tiny humans running amuck.

“Hey, Dick!” Leah’s mom greeted him. “How are you doing?” Ashley was a long-time friend. She and Jane had met in a prenatal yoga class and she remained one of the few friends that hadn’t found excuses to remove Jane’s particular brand of crazy from their lives.

“Great, thanks! I secured a new project today so that should keep me honest for a while.”

“That’s good news.” Ashley replied, shuffling three icing-covered munchkins racing by with an eager dog at their heels. “Hey, you’re welcome to stay but if you need a little time for yourself, we have plenty of adults here and I’ll make sure Nell is well taken care of.”

Dick thought for a minute. A free moment to a single parent was a rare luxury indeed. Images of a quiet cup of coffee and watching a non-cartoon tv show flooded his mind, and before he knew it, Dick had said his goodbyes to Nell and was walking the half a block to his own house alone.

The key slid easily in the lock, and Dick was struck by the silence inside the house. Nell didn’t seem to know how to exist without making noise and Dick was unaccustomed to the sudden stillness in his ears. He suddenly felt a bit unsettled, almost as if there was something familiar about this moment, though Dick hadn’t been alone in this house since Jane went away and he had become Nell’s full-time caregiver. He ran his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, brushing the imaginary tingles in his spine away. Tossing his keys and phone on the sideboard, Dick headed into the kitchen.

Taking the coffee out of the cupboard to the right of the stove, he scooped several teaspoons into his stovetop espresso pot, filled the resevoir with water and set it over the flame. Walking into the living room, Dick kicked aside the toys that had been hurriedly left out in the morning in rush to get Nell to daycare before work and plopped down on the sofa.

“Ouch!” Dick cried out as something sharp stab him in his lower back. He reached behind him and felt blindly in the cushions for what had impaled him. His fingers grasped cold metal and he pulled out a pair of red-handled scissors. Nell knew she was only supposed to use the safety scissors when she did her crafts, but she often forgot. Dick tossed them onto the coffee table and lifted up the back of his shirt to assess the damage. An angry red welt was rapidly rising but no blood had breached the surface. He settled back into the couch and clicked on the tv.

“...And now we turn to Leslie with the latest on what is being referred to as the Incident at Edgecombe.” The news anchor on the screen caught Dick’s attention as the shot panned to a blonde reporter stationed outside the fenced lawn of the hospital where he had last seen Jane.

“That’s right, John,” she said, “No official word on exactly what happened or how the three women managed to escape the facility late last night, but an employee I spoke to who asked not to be identified said a guard had been killed by the suspects the during the breakout. Again, three women who were serving sentences for violent crimes related to their mental health issues here at Edgecomb State Hospital broke out of the heavily guarded facility. Two of those inmates were captured about a mile away in the woods that surround the hospital but the third has yet to be located. Police are asking the public to be vigilant and report any suspicious activity immediately. The third woman is described as...”

The hair on Dick’s neck immediately pricked up and he shuddered under his sudden realization. He did not need to hear the reporter’s description. He knew that the third woman was Jane and that the uneasy feeling he had when he walked through the door wasn’t because he was alone in the house. It was because he wasn’t alone. Dick sprang up off the sofa and turned instinctively towards the entryway.

There Jane stood, dressed in a t-shirt, her hair disheveled. Her bare feet were muddied and Dick knew from the wildness in her gaze that she had been off her medication for quite some time.

“Hello, husband.” she said and took a step in his direction. “Where is our daughter? Have you done away with her the way you did away with me?”

Dick surveyed the room, his heart pounding frantically in his chest and his mind racing. “Jane, what are you doing here? How...how did you even get here?’

“Aren’t you happy to see me? I’ve missed you so much. I was willing to do anything to come back to you. The least you can do is come over and say hello.” Jane smiled, as she took another step forward.

“What did you do? You are not allowed to be here. I’m going to call the police.”

Jane laughed, and for a brief moment Dick heard the sound that had first drawn him to her. She had always had a great laugh, but now it’s sound struck fear inside of him. It was no longer the laugh of a woman in love. It was the cackle of a woman unhinged.

“Don’t be silly, darling. How can you possibly call the police when I have your phone?” She lifted her hand to display the phone before smashing it violently to the ground. Dick watched in slow motion as bits of plastic and glass shattered across the wood floor.

Raising his arms defensively in front of him, Dick began to circle around the opposite side of the couch as Jane rounded one corner. “Jane, Jane listen…” he pleaded, “what do you want?”

Her eyes hardened at his question and she glared at him. “What do I want? What do I want? I want my fucking life back! I want a husband who isn’t fucking every whore that he meets. I want to see my baby! She’s MY baby you know!” Jane was screaming now and Dick wasn’t sure what his next move was.

“Sweetheart,” he said, trying to placate her, “I never slept with anyone but you. I’ve always loved you. It wasn’t me who put you in that place. And remember, Nella and I came and visited you, just this past Christmas. Don’t you remember? We sat in front of the tree and you held Nella and sang her a song.”

Jane seemed to soften at the mention of their daughter’s name and the tension in the room eased ever so slightly. “Here,” Dick said, motioning to the couch, “why don’t you just sit down for a minute. We can figure this out. I’m...I’m happy you’re here.” He smiled at her as convincingly as he could, and though she appeared puzzled, she sank down into the cushion wearily.

“See, isn’t that nice? I’m making some coffee. Let me get you a cup and we can talk this through.” Dick offered, beginning to feel like he was regaining some control again.

Jane stared up at him. She hesitated, “I would like some decent coffee. They only have the Folgers instant stuff in the hospital. It’s total shit.”

Dick chuckled, feeling more and more at ease. “I’ll just go check to see if it’s ready. It should be boiling by now.” Dick turned to head into the kitchen. His tablet sat on the counter where he’d left it this morning and he quickly powered it up. The pot was beginning to scream under the pressure of the boiling water, so Dick quickly shut of the burner while he searched for the messaging app.

He quickly poured a steaming cup into a mug and sent a hurried message to Ashley. “Help. Jane home. Call police. NOW!” He waited until he saw the delivered receipt and then brought the coffee back into the living room. He breathed a silent sigh. He only needed to keep her calm until the police came. Everything would be fine.

Jane was still seated when he returned, watching the weather report on the tv. Dick handed her the mug and took the spot next to her on the couch. “Here you go...one non-shitty cup of coffee.” He smiled and Jane returned it with a smile of her own.

They sat quietly for a moment, the sound of the forecast filling the space for them.

“I know I can’t stay.” Jane finally stated, and she turned to meet his gaze. “It’s just that I never got to say good-bye you know? They took me away and I never got to finish what I started.”

Dick looked at Jane. For a moment, the woman he knew before all this, the one that he had madly and passionately loved, reappeared in the face in front of him. A tear was trickling down her cheek and she looked so helpless.

“Can we just...can you just hug me for a minute? I only need a minute.”

“Of course, love.” Dick said and he moved closer to her on the sofa. He placed his arms around her and felt her return the embrace. For a moment, they sat there, just breathing and hanging on to each other.

Jane shifted slightly and Dick began to pull away but he was stopped by a sudden and violent pain in his back. It was followed by another and then another. Stunned, he looked at Jane to see her holding the now-bloodied pair of red scissors he had carelessly tossed on the coffee table earlier. He could feel three streams of warm blood trickling down his back and watched as the wildness returned to her eyes.

Dick fell back on the couch, startled, and Jane lunged at him one more time, plunging the blade directly into his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His eyes flashed with red, red, red and then, it was black.

“Goodbye.” He heard Jane say as he faded into the darkness.

Word Count Wednesday

As I mentioned in my previous post, this week held an unexpected and unfortunate surprise in the form of a failed laptop and the loss of my past couple month's worth of work. I have many thoughts about this but most of them are not publishable. Over the years, I've noticed that hope is as indestructible as a cockroach, so I'm going to hold onto that sucker until I'm presented with undeniable proof that my work is irrecoverable. I believe in you Steve from Geek Squad!!!

On a brighter note, thanks to this blog and some screenshots that I happened to have of my narrative work, all is not lost and I've been able to reconstruct some of the most important pieces. I'm looking at this experience as a forced revision...a crash course in the lesson of 'killing my darlings.' Maybe something better will come from it.

What am I currently working on?

The biggest piece I've been working on is a revision on my first chapter for the Narrative assignment. I've essentially scrapped my previous work and gone in a completely new direction. I took the feedback about steering clear of stereotypes, beginning elsewhere and reworking the mother character I had developed, and I really like where its going. I finished the new chapter with total of 1182 words.

I wrote a poem this week entitled It Wasn't Rape which explored some of the reasoning that is made in order to justify or minimize the reality of what happened. This one is locked up in my traitorous laptop so I don't know if it will ever see the light of day.

I also wrote the tale of my Valentine's Day Heartbreak last night and the word count was 461.

How do I feel about the process?

I have mixed feelings this week. I tend to have a bit of what my therapist calls an 'all or nothing' personality. If my work needs revision, I have a hard time not completely starting over from scratch rather than seeing what I have already created through to the next phase. Maybe this is okay, but I could see it being an issue if I continue to reinvent a new chapter one over and over. I also feel like I've struggled a bit to carry a cohesiveness throughout the chapter, tending to fall off my momentum as I incorporate dialogue and background.

What am I reading?

Bedtime stories mostly, but I am making sure that I pay careful attention to how the stories are stitched together and the details like word choice. I'm also getting ready to pick back up Stephen King's On Writing.