Travel Day today, and this is my first Friday in The Undisclosed Location in a few weeks. The last couple I’ve been at The Real Home, seeing doctors and dealing with lab work, and a tree, lets not forget a tree. So this will be my first drive home on a Friday in a while, and I’m hoping all the idiots are off the roads.
I was almost in three near collisions in the course of ten minutes yesterday, the best one happening because the one interstate we were one begins to split into two, and a guy in front of me, he decides, “Oh, I want to be in the lane to my left–the one that’s all backed up. I think now is a good time to come to a complete stop!” Which he almost did. He forces his way into the other lane, and as I drive by–he’d on a mobile the whole time. Yes, I wanted to stop, drag him out of his car, and beat him like an old rug.
If I can get out of work even ten minutes early, that’s ten minutes I don’t have to deal with people on the roads. Crossing my fingers the trip home is good.
I managed a bit of writing: just over thirteen hundred words. Meredith and Albert, sitting by a pond, reminding each other why they’re so friendless. Even though there were a lot of words, it wasn’t easy to write. I actually went back and added a paragraph at one point, because I forgot to say something, and it needed to be said at that point. That’s why we have computers with word processing programs; to allow us that luxury. Back in the day of typewriters, I’ve had had to write that on another page and insert it in the stack. No, I don’t miss those days.
Some of the dialog sounds bumbling, and it’s suppose to be. It’s not an easy scene to write, because both characters are, in reality, pretty lonely in their own ways. I can relate to that, believe me. So as I have them both sitting on a bench on the shore of a pond, staring out at something on the other side, speaking in low voices so they aren’t overheard, I can feel how alone they both are.
I was speaking with someone late last night, and I told her that this story has been whacking me pretty hard. There is a way too much of me in Albert, and so when he feels like a person in the wrong place and time, alone in the middle of a crowd, I know exactly what he’s feeling.
See, this is how writers are. They can become emotionally bound by their stories, and it pulls and tugs at them as much as it does their characters. I’ve never had a story take this long to write, because every turn feels like I’m tip-toeing through a minefield. What strange thing am I gonna have to make the characters say next?
Lets get home today, relax a little, then get back into the story tonight–
I feel an admonishing coming on. I truly do.