Made it through the long weekend without incident. Weather was cool and rainy, and there wasn’t a lot of eating. I don’t have relatives in the area, so I stayed home. The new week continues onward, as does life.
I was going to write yesterday, but you know how you get distracted by one thing, and you can’t walk away from it because it’s so shiny? Yeah, it was like that yesterday afternoon. I was working on a design for this school that will play a major part in a story I’m developing, and the more I put things on the map, the more real the place became. Not to mention it takes a long time to put walls in place, and set up and model buildings, and lay down paths . . .
You get the idea. Getting a world built is a lot of work, and there are times when that work gets in the way of something else you should do.
Still, there’s always time to write, and I was going to–until my right eye started burning about seven-thirty last night–
I get this every so often, where my eye will get irritated by something (still have no idea what I did), and then it waters and burns, then it starts to gunk up, at which point I have to clean it out, only to have it enter the same cycle about fifteen minutes later. I’ve tried to write before when that happens, and it’s harder than hell to do anything when you’re wiping at your eye every two minutes, or you can’t even see out of it because it’s nearly closed up with something leaking out of one corner.
So I gave up trying to write. I really gave up trying to do anything, because it was far too hard with my eye as it was. Therefore it was time for bed . . .
I shouldn’t say I gave up on everything, because I was running a scene through my head, and I wanted to work out what a couple of characters were saying. This is something I do, taking the part of my characters and working out dialog which, in turn, will help me with a scene and with what’s happening at some point in the story.
But this scene wasn’t for something that would appear in a hypothetical story a year from now. Oh, no: this was something from a few years down the line in the history of a couple of characters. This was a talk between two women, in private, sitting in a pavilion on the edge of a small meadow as the sun is sinking behind them. It’s quiet, they’re alone, and they’re discussing a subject one of them knows well–
Death. And how one must sometimes kill.
I sat there in the dark, on the bed, feeling the cool outside air trickle into the room, hearing the light patter of rain on the stones in the back yard, and I worked out their conversation. I spent maybe fifteen minutes taking their parts, talking out their feelings, their ideas, their concerns. I knew who their were as I spoke, and as I started to lay back, I was still speaking one of the character’s parts, my voice growing softer as my eyes started to close . . .
It’s not every night you can take your characters to bed with you. At least you’re never really alone at night when you’re a writer.