Friday, April 06, 2012
Trying my hand @ Write on Edge
I've talked here before about having a novel in the can. Actually, it's trapped on a 3½" floppy, but that's beside the point...the point is I consider myself a writer and I haven't put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard for my own "stuff" in years.
I have a coworker who's a writing machine. She edits sites for 8 hours a day, then goes home and works on her freelance business, pinch-hits articles for the local papers, and tucks into her own novel. This girl has the bug, and it bit hard. I used to think that would be me.
Do I still want it to be? And if so, how do I bring it back into the light?
Found one way, maybe. This isn't anything yet...it's the seed of a story I've had rattling around in my head for ages. Girl on a train, going where? But I cranked out 350 words like it was nothing, which begs the question, why the blank aren't I writing more?! If I don't consider myself a storyteller, then cheat, use prompts, and see where it leads.
Prompt: Introduce an element of romance.
He’s really not coming…
The train lurched forward and I grabbed at the bunk to catch my balance. My stomach hurt with the weight of the words we had thrown at each other as the taxi had honked for me outside the house. I blinked back tears and shifted my shoulders, so the heavy knapsack could slide off. I swung it up to the top bunk and placed my duffle on the lower bed.
Maybe he’ll meet me up there?
We’d been planning this trip for months, a nice break from reality before we both start grad school and new jobs. I hadn’t found a solid gig yet, but was freelancing. He’d found a job this past week. The downside: they wanted him to start now. Since he’d been out of work for years prior to this, he was afraid to tell them no, to say he needed the customary 2 weeks.
I’d been unfair, and I blinked back tears now, thinking about how we’d argued. We never argue, never-ever, and the foreignness of these feelings made me break down now, as I crumpled into a sitting position on the uncomfortable couch opposite the bunks. The rhythm of the train increased, but the sound of it didn’t soothe me as it normally would have. I grabbed at my cell phone to call him, but of course, there was no signal.
There was a knock on the cabin door. I assumed it was the conductor, so I wiped frantically at my face and ran my hands through my hair as I got up to open the door.
He took me in his arms as I gasped out “I’m sorry.” The tears came back in a rush, and we kissed and embraced as I sobbed. I pulled him into the cabin and tossed his bag on the couch in a single movement as my hands moved over his body. His hands reached up to cup my face as he kissed me tenderly and said “please don’t cry, it’s OK. I’m here.”
Button from here.