First up, a little rant, because this is how I sorta started my day:
If you continue coming onto my Facebook wall just to troll your Fox Noise-given “knowledge”, to complain and answer every meaningful question with another complaint, and you generally have have no intention of ever engaging in any kind of meaningful dialog, I will simply unfriend your ass.
And the fact I did it to my stepson this morning should inform everyone else that I’ll drop a dime on others in a fast second.
That said, we move onward . . .
I slipped into the Work in Progress last night, and though I had an incredible amount of difficulty getting into my writing head space, when I did crank out the words, they can pretty easy. I was able to do 730 words in about 40 minutes, and while it was mostly dialog, still . . . there was something behind it that tugged at not just my mind, but at my heart.
The thing is, I ended the story at a point where I felt like I’d have forced myself to continue had I wrote more last night. I needed to sleep on what was coming next. Oh, I knew what was coming next, I knew what would be said, but I didn’t want to push that last night.
Let me show you where I ended. I’ve never showed people a work in progress, but hey–we’re all friends here, right?
So these are the last few paragraphs I wrote last night (except from Echoes, copyright 2012, Raymond Frazee):
It was only then that Albert understood what Tommy was saying. “When did Lynette and you speak with her?”
“30 April, 1987.”
“When did she die?”
A long sigh preceded Tommy’s next statement. “30 April.”
It was Albert’s turn to sigh. “Was she alive when you left the room?”
Tommy’s response was quick, with no attempt to obfuscate. “No.”
Before Albert could any anything more, he said, “Lynette examined Marissa while we were speaking. She pulled me aside and told me: Marissa was far gone and in pain. Lynette figured she had, at best, two weeks, before she passed on.”
“Tommy—”
“Everything she did, up to that point—leaving her husband, stealing the money, going to the places you both spoke of visiting . . .” Tommy started at the ground, shaking his head slowly. “She did it for you. She said you inspired her to move on, to see the things you both wanted to see together.” He ran his right index finger over his teeth, something he did when he was agitated. “She wanted to take a chance with what remained of her life. She did all that . . . she did that because she loved you.” When Tommy looked up at Albert, there was real sadness in his eyes. “She did it to honor you.”
This is the part that’s been giving me so much resistance, that’s been so difficult for me to get through. 500 words here, 700 here, 600 there . . . it’s all this sort of looking back, knowing what’s coming, that has been tugging at me for at least a week. I know the story will end, and soon, but this part has really been kicking my butt so hard.
So what happened this morning–besides kicking idiots of my Facebook page? I instantly went into the story and added the part that I didn’t want to write last night. Just about 125 words, but after reading what was just said, this follow-up became inevitable (except from Echoes, copyright 2012, Raymond Frazee):
Albert’s throat tightened. That Marissa spent the last few month of her life heading out upon an adventure which they’d discussed, that they’d dreamed of the during the various times they’d taken lunch together, or stopped after worked for a quick bite and drinks . . . or even the one time when they’d danced slow at an outdoor cafe on the banks of the Chicago River . . . it hit him with an emotional charge that made his skin tingle. She did this for me, he thought. All her remaining moments were meant for us.
But there remained one last event that Albert couldn’t leave unmentioned; the one last act of Marissa’s life— “You euthanized her, didn’t you?”
Tommy was just as quick with this answer as he was with the others. “Yes.”
There. It’s said. It’s out there, and now, maybe, with that last out of the way, I can finish the scene, get on with the story, and really get a good cry in when I reach the last part.
This was suppose to be a short story. It’s almost 17,000 words, and will probably hit 20,000 when it’s finished. Short story? I don’t think I know how to keep my emotions in checked that well.
