The return to The Undisclosed Location was the first taken with the benefit of time having “sprung forward”, and so I had daylight all the way down to the hole. I have to say, I much prefer having the landscape fade to black about half way to my destination; it lends to a far better sense of drama. And when I flip off the downtown as I drive by, fewer people can see what I’m doing.
I’ve drawn closer to the end of the novel, Transporting. I busted through the fourth scene yesterday, doing it in two steps. The first time I wrote 1,100 words, and last night I finished the scene off with 700 words. Both times right on the nose counts–what are the odds? Probably pretty rare.
It felt like the writing of this section . . . the first part was a little difficult. It wasn’t just trying to find the right words, but capture the feel, trying to get the mood down. Again, I’ve envisioned the scene before, and some of my visions were pretty strange–including one that took place in an alley with one of the main characters actually getting so crazy she started hitting her head against a brick wall.
But this wasn’t meant to be a manic moment. It wasn’t meant to be one of those scenes where people are thrashing about, all wild eyes and flailing arms. No, I’d already established that when one of the main characters sank into her depression, she just goes down and stays there. So manic wasn’t the way to go.
It became, rather, a quiet moment, held in silence away from all the festivities of the street party. It was in a semi-darkened room, quiet, just two women sitting, talking in subdued voices. Not a lot of shouting, or getting upset, or even slapping a hand against a table.
It was meant to be more intimate, and I think I got it there. Or so I hope. When it comes to getting emotion across on the written page, it’s always a crap shoot.
So when I get to the payoff–the return to the street, the walking around in a daze that I think I handled quiet nicely, and the ultimate reveal–it comes across as short and sweet . . . and even a little bit clichéd. I wondered about that last, and then figured, “Naw, the hell with it.” It fits with the character in question; it’s her demeanor to go for the clichéd if she feels it fits her mood. Plus she’s on a mood swing, and if you know how those feel–and I do have some experience–then doing what she does isn’t completely out of the question.
Now all that remains is to go to the clock tower–yes, that’s right–have a conversation, have something else happen that I sort of “talked out” last night, and then . . .
Two chapters to go, the next being why these characters are where they are at in the story.
The novel sits at 276,100 words, and if I look at scenes and think of word counts, I’ll hit 280k with ease.
It’s almost there. The finish line is in sight.
All I have to do is walk across.
