I’ve been going over my last NaNoWriMo … collection of words (story seems too generous a term), and wondering when I allowed the writing of a story to become such a weight, such a difficulty. These days, I peck away at fiction for a bit, decide it’s no good and a waste of time, and shuffle off to something else. Yet that itch remains. Sometimes it seems it would be easier if it didn’t.
It’s not that I think myself to be a terrible writer. At least I don’t think I am all the time. Ha, ha. But seriously—in the revisiting of some things, I’ve found a few things I actually like, things such as the below snippet of a scene where a man is saying a final farewell to his recently deceased wife:
…he thought he may even have some words to say to Julie now that they were finally alone. But he found his tongue empty, even as his heart was full. And so he kicked once more at the earth, shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets, and let the wind trail his tie behind him as he walked the short distance to his car, before he drove the empty miles to an empty house.
And then there was this snippet of a scene, a short while later in the actual story (but pages and pages later in the messiness of NaNoWriMo Land):
He only knew the time with that degree of precision - a first lifting, perhaps, out of the fog he had been in for days - because he had looked away from her usual spot at their kitchen table to the clock on the microwave in an attempt to stave off the breakdown. Maybe the banality of the green digital display would act as a switch or a diversion or something to stop the tidal wave of grief he had managed to outpace, somehow, for the past week and a half. Maybe the late-night drinking session had been a bad idea. Julie certainly would have deemed it that - a bad idea that is. But she was six days gone, now. Three days buried. And he was three sheets to the wind …
He could do this, he could hold off one more day with the tears and the anger, the sadness and the grief he feared he would never come out from underneath should it crest over him. Just focus on the clock, on those little green numbers, drink a little more Scotch malt whiskey, stumble back to the bed in the guest room …
11: 38 PM
But he had misjudged, miscalculated or simply misunderstood what his mind and body could bear, for before the clock ticked off another minute, Donald Kemp folded his arms on the kitchen table, laid his head down, and wept as he had not yet allowed himself to do since his Julie, his wife, his life had died.
I don’t know … maybe I need to write about happier things? Or maybe I need to sit, and ponder and peck at the keyboard (or scribble on the page) and see what happens, to push through and see what there is on the other side? Time—and some appropriately applied stubbornness—will tell, perhaps?
Any which way, there are more questions than answers this week …