Maybe I'm not so much a liar, as I am bad at math. I thought I could make it to 50,000 words during this writing session, but I was mistaken. Faulty math, somewhere in there. I'm trying to be a writer people, not an engineer. "I'm a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech and a hellava... author... eer..." Dammit all to hell. If I do today's writing, well, today, then I should knock 50,000 out of the water. Don't hold your breath.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (Sunday's) Word Count: 2543
Surplus/Deficit: 43
J.W.B.: 3645
Today's Excerpt:
"Paper fell like leaves as he began to sift through the laden table. His journal was here, it had to be. At least ten feet in length, he patted down the entire table, flipped portions of it over and over, growing desperate, almost panicky with each section that turned up empty. Anger at himself and his own self destruction, his own weakness, slowly boiled over as he systematically swept sections of the paper onto the floor, creating a strange, voyeuristic winter wonderland. Other patrons stepped back and watched him, some worried, others with blank attempts at interest. Finally, someone who worked there came in.
“Hey, hey, what the hell are you doing?” she said loudly, eyes bulging at the mess he had made. Taking her in, he saw that this woman wore urban camoflauge pants, grays and blacks and different shades of blue splotched around. The pants clashed horribly with the bright green tank top that hung from her body like a limp flag, hoping for any breeze at all. Her limbs seemed too long for her short torso, and her face was long as a boat. Light brown eyes shot out from her face, and spiky, styled hair emanated from her head like liquid electricity. The anger billowing from her bumped against the steady cloud that had been building up in him for years, and she looked at his eyes with curiosity.
“What are you doing?” she asked again, in a calm voice this time, squatting so that she was on his level.
“I’m looking for my journal,” he said after holding her gaze for several seconds. “It’s a brown, leather bound journal, with a long cord that you can wrap around it twice, and it’s more important to me than you can know and I need it back.”
Whether it was the urgency in his voice or the small pool of tears in his right eye, she sat down and pulled her legs in, Indian style. The anger left her face as she said softly, “So you must be Al’s friend, right?”
“Yes, sort of,” he replied, both shocked that she knew Al and relatively unimpressed. Nothing about this journey surprised him anymore.
“I don’t have your journal,” Woody Kidwell said. “But I can tell you who does.”
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2 comments:
KEEP GOING. push yourself harder!!!
You are perfectly capable of writing a book, just KEEP GOING and give yourself some time, patience, and then you'll have an editor to help you sort out the other bit
Jim,
I have but one editorial note to make. In this, your most recent excerpt, you use the phrase "Indian Style" to describe the way a woman is sitting. May I suggest using the far more P.C. and (more importantly) Walden approved "Pretzel Legs." I think this small change will give your opus an air enlightenment.
For the record I am not even remotely serious about this. I want to make that perfectly clear. Don't ever take writing advice from me. Especially if said advice is motivated by Walden lingo.
On a more serious note. Keep up the good work. 50,000 words is no small feat. I am not even sure I have read as many words as you have written in the past 24 days!
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