Something’s coming together on the page. Swear word, swear word, swear word: I’ve been spending all week trying to make shit happen. The words hate me. My characters hate me. Plots are bitchy PMS-ridden teenagers. Novels are suitcases filled with stones that I must drag behind me all day long.
But, then, this morning. A light. One of my damn characters actually spoke to me, and it didn’t sound like me, playing ventriliquest. It sounded like my character, talking. Hurrah.
This is part of what he said:
We’d been on the road three months, going where we were needed. Dry dirt, cracked and scaled, met us everywhere. Farming communities, mostly. The townspeople didn’t know they needed us, didn’t see the connection between the food on their table and the cows five miles away, chewing their nothing-cuds, all head and hipbones. Or the wheat and corn, barely knee high in August now, leaf tips scorched as brown as earth. So we skipped the towns and cities, and traveled the dry dirt-track road that brought us from farm to farm. Where the men met us holding their pitchforks and their wives gave us small sips of muddy water from the dried-up well and after our throats opened again, we told them what we could offer.
Granted, it’s a rough draft, but man, I’ve got that high-high-high that comes when the writing clicks again after too long of fucking with it for nothing. I even did some novel “work” this morning in my head–figured out why the opening wasn’t working and came up with a better concept, I think, for some of the conflict.