Last night was Hack and Slash writing time: the cold was there in strength and I was hacking like crazy, trying to get whatever had taken up residency in my chest the hell out. It left the throat raw, but it did help clear the lungs–much in the same way a barium enema will eventually clear up that bloated feeling you’re experiencing.
I decided to go old school for writing last night, doing something I did when I started my story Kuntilanak almost a year and a half ago: I cued up Emerson, Lake, and Palmer’s Pictures at an Exhibition, knew I had forty-four minutes to crank out some wordage, and went to town.
The story is picking up about a week and a half after the events of Chapter Eleven, and Keith is feeling somewhat–lets say different. He’s in tune to the story; he knows what he wants to say, and he’s getting it all down in the written form. Erin the Muse is busy with other things–things that got me a stuck-out tongue when I posted a few short paragraphs of the story after I was finished–and Keith is wondering hard if maybe something changed because they hooked up. Anything is possible, because I’m Erin’s boss, and what I say goes, right?
Something is about to happen in Keith’s life, and I’d be lying if I said not only has this happened to me, but what follow is probably something I would loved to have done, but never did. Call it Revenge Fantasy, which for me is petty mild, because the days where I’d plot and plot and plot some devious shit to those who’d wronged me are well in the past. See, this is why you should go into therapy. It does work.
I had some qualms about putting this chapter in the novel, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Keith is at a turning point in his life, and just as Erin kicked his butt to get him going on this story, he needs another kick to remind him that he shouldn’t live today for tomorrow like he was immortal, the only survivors on this world of ours are the warming sun, the cooling rain,
the snowflake drifting on the breath of the breeze . . . oh, wait: I’ve been listening to too much Burning Rope.
But it’s true: we don’t get the dreams we want, we have to go after them. No one has ever walked into a place where I’ve worked, pointed at me, and said, “Cassie! I need you to write a novel that’s going to be big! Come on, girl, lets go!” No, it’s always been something short of an eye roll whenever I’ve mentioned that I’m trying to become a full-time writer, like I should be happy cleaning up after ever mess ever left by an egotistical manager. Don’t reach for dreams, they’re saying. You’re crazy to think you can do something that you’re not suppose to do . . .
I’ve chided other people for buying into the revenge fantasy memes that pop up on Facebook almost every day, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have moments when I think I should have done something like flip over a table and run out of a room laughing like a loon. I once did tell a room full of people, after being told I was being laid off, that it was a good think I was on meds, otherwise my departure might go a little differently–and that day I had someone watching me like a hawk the entire time until I was in my car and out the company parking lot. Not that I would have done anything, but it’s always good to keep the suckers guessing . . .
I’ll give Keith a little room to move, to express some opinions that I should have, but didn’t. Maybe he’ll even have a parting shot as he leaves the building–
Sometimes I just can’t help be a wise ass when the need arises.