The goal or the method (or some of both)
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| Talk about one stop on a long process, that's what another Cornflower Quilt block is all about. |
I love writing. I also enjoy completions, lol. This morning I started reading at the beginning not only of the WIP but what has become the second in a perceived saga. I had *HOPED* to complete the rewrite of this novel before next Sunday. Not sure if that's gonna happen, que sera sera.
In reading the first scene, I was struck at how this story (and whatever comes of it series-wise) has framed my year, which started off with saying goodbye to one deeply cherished. At the time, the WIP was merely a way to immediately process what I had just witnessed, it truly wasn't meant as the basis for what it has become. Maybe I need to acknowledge that to myself; for all my desires to wrap up this story by Father's Day, better is a slower path, especially since so much will follow. I WANT to finish this book, but indulging in the journey could be significant.
The destination vs the expedition; does there need to be an or between them even? Editing this novel has felt like an OR if ever there was one; I need to dig through the rubble, locate the jewel, then I can start afresh on the third parcel in this still only in my mind series. But the jewel has been placed deeply within the prose, in my heart, set hard into my soul. How to extricate such a treasure by assuming it was merely a manner of add this plot twist, don't forget that character, and for goodness sake plop those aliens here, here, here, and oh yeah over there too. Initially this story contained no extraterrestrials, but in fashioning an end when I first wrote it, I casually dropped creatures from beyond our galaxy into the narrative as though all along they had been in the thick of things. LOLOLOLOL! A crappy way to complete the story, I thought at the time, but at the time this story was only for me. For Present Me, might I add. Past Me and Future Me had no right to it because it was borne of excruciating grief that required an outlet. But then the aliens showed up and....
Suddenly all efforts between myself and Future Me were harnessed into hammering a prelude, while Past Me gripped tightly to what had been a cathartic endeavor. Artistic too, but mostly therapeutic, which it remains because relative sudden death is still damn hard to fathom months down the line. But more important is the love shared not only during one person's last week of life, but what was accrued over the years and what has since been freely experienced. Past Me is trying to find the meaning while Future Me nods gently and kindly, grasping to her chest an armload of stories. I can visualize her keeping safe the tales related to one little story, maybe that permits me to back away from my previous timeline. Those books are waiting for me to write them, they aren't going anywhere.
I don't know how many parts this series will possess, although I have a vague notion of how it will conclude. It began on February ninth, 2023; wow, four months have passed, plus one day. On this day, I'm giving myself full permission to spend as much or as little time in reaching conclusions as is necessary, not only for the WIP but all that follows. I took five years to write The Hawk, which ended up being about ten full-length novels worth of story. Yeah, I'm a decade older now, but when the muse starts pointing toward a definitive path, I know better than to stare at distractions along the ground. Past Me hollers from behind to keep my eyes straight ahead while Future Me grins, still clutching all those books. I can't tell how many, but her beatific smile beckons me to set aside particulars. Just write, she calls out, and leave the deadlines be.
(For fun, here's the first scene. The setting is summer, 2023....)
Being a Sunday, Lucy Sorenson had already made cocktails. Condensation had collected in the outer crevices of a large glass pitcher’s fluted edges, ice melting rapidly on a sultry August afternoon. Lucy didn’t mind the brandy and lemonade sluicing together, although if Dana didn’t arrive soon, another glass of ice would be necessary.
Squinting westward, Lucy saw no sign of Dana Noth. Grumbling softly, Lucy refilled her tumbler. A sudden gust of wind cooled her neck, making her shiver. She closed her eyes, quickly permitting sounds from inside the house as a distraction; murmured conversations collided with twittering birds, crickets chirping, frogs croaking. Lucy opened her eyes, then smiled; Dana was exiting her house at the end of their shared street, waving as she took her porch steps, her full cotton skirt rising with another gust of wind, revealing old bike shorts snug on her legs.
Neither spoke, but Lucy waved back, hoisting her glass in the air. Dana nodded, approaching Lucy’s house, which overlooked the narrow bay separating their small hamlet from what most villagers still considered as the mainland, although what had once been deemed an island hadn’t been so isolated since Lucy was a toddler. Did Dana remember the flooding, Lucy mused, sipping her drink as Dana sauntered through the open front gate, gathering her skirt in front of her as another strong breeze threatened to again swirl the fabric aloft. “Damned wind,” Dana muttered as she reached the front steps. “Thank goodness it’s supposed to die down soon.”
Lucy didn’t flinch from Dana’s observation. “Pour yourself a drink before it needs more ice.”
“That I shall.” Dana filled a large tumbler, then sat next to Lucy. The wide porch accommodated several chairs, but theirs were set to the right of the front door, proffering a view not merely of the bay. If Lucy wore her glasses, she could make out Dana’s shop two blocks down on the corner of Main Street. But Lucy had left her specs inside, and until the pitcher required topping up, she wouldn’t go back in.
Instead she again peered at the bay. “Low tide,” she said as Dana tucked her skirt under her legs. “Does that affect business?”
“Not really. I shouldn’t have bothered opening today, it’s been so slow lately.”
“It’s a good distraction,” Lucy said, then finished what sat in her glass.
“I guess. Any news?”
“I’m so sick of listening to birds I could puke.”
Dana laughed abruptly, then placed her drink carefully in her lap. Removing a scrunchie from her wrist, she twirled wavy gray hair atop her head, then wrapped the scrunchie around it. She sighed, collecting her glass, swirling the contents for a few seconds. Then she chugged the beverage, handing it to Lucy, who sat closest to the pitcher. Lucy needed no direction; she refreshed Dana’s drink, and the women said nothing as Dana ingested what seemed so necessary, not merely that it was a lazy afternoon. Lucy was forty-seven, Dana fifty. How many Sundays have we boozed away, Lucy wondered as noisy wildlife continued to leak from the living room windows.
“Who’s with her now?” Dana asked.
Lucy furrowed her brow. “Everybody I think.”
“Shit, that’s a crowd. Surprised all we can hear are the damned birds.”
Lucy smiled. “She gave everyone a scare earlier. I almost called you but I figured she was faking.”
“Don’t call unless she’s….” Dana sighed, untucked the left edge of her skirt, then tucked it back in again. “Unless you want the company.”
Lucy patted Dana’s leg. “Got more company than brains right now.”
Sipping her drink, Dana nodded. “Any idea how much time’s left?”
“Nope.”
Dana grasped Lucy’s hand. “That okay?”
“I don’t know. Well, it’s fine with me but….”
Someone stepped from the house and both women glanced at the front door. Nathan was dressed in shorts, an old t-shirt, and sneakers. “I’m going running,” he said, walking behind them. He first kissed Dana’s head, then Lucy’s. Then he chuckled softly. “Leave me some for when I get back.”
“She okay?” Lucy asked as he took the steps.
“Just faking,” he smiled, reaching the front gate.
“What I thought,” Lucy replied. “You have your phone?”
“Nope. If I miss it, sue me.”
“Go on,” Lucy said. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Nathan nodded, gesturing to the bay. He stretched briefly, then began to jog slowly down the slope where a concrete path encircled the hamlet. Within seconds he was past where Lucy could have observed him even with her glasses.
Dana took a long swig from her drink, then again nestled it in her lap. “Lord, he’s a beautiful man.”
“He is,” Lucy smiled, “and barely knows it.”
“Oh he knows, but doesn’t give a damn. I wonder if he ever did.”
“Maybe back east, but not here.”
Dana nodded, retrieved her tumbler, but didn’t do more than grasp it. “He doesn’t look any older than when I first met him, shit that’s been twenty years.”
“I’ve been thinking the very same.”
“Is that all you’ve been thinking?”
“Sometimes,” Lucy sighed. “Life’s a funny thing, but maybe that goes without saying.”
“Funny isn’t how I’d describe it right now.”
“Have another drink, then it won’t seem so depressing.”
“If I do that I’ll need help walking home.”
“Nathan can escort you,” Lucy grinned.
“I’m surprised he didn’t take his phone.”
“Where would he have put it?”
“Maybe in his shoe,” Dana giggled.
“Maybe.” Lucy briefly closed her eyes, allowing sounds from the house back into her head. If Nathan had felt comfortable in leaving, the rest would soon start filtering outside. Or maybe the little boys would go upstairs. Glancing at the depleted pitcher, Lucy stretched her legs. “Should I make another?”
“Not on my account.” Dana finished her drink, then set the glass under her chair. “You want more?”
“I want one, but….” Gripping the armrests, Lucy sat forward, gazing at the nearly empty bay. Glancing past it, she studied houses on the other side of the water, boats tethered to small docks, long piers with iron benches affixed. Mainlanders, she sniffed, then smiled at the outdated term. “You hanging out the rest of the afternoon?”
“I can. You tell me what to do.”
“Shirl’s in charge of dinner, not much to do but gossip.”
“If I don’t have to think about cooking, you have me the rest of the day.”
Lucy nodded, then gripped Dana’s hand. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Scooting back in her chair, Lucy didn’t release Dana’s hand, but she did take a deep breath. As she exhaled, a wave of helplessness flowed from her chest, clearing a slight blockage. Upon inhaling, she immediately noticed the scents of despair mingling with the sweetness of lemonade-tinted brandy, hedged by sodden mud. The fragrance of my adult life, she permitted, squeezing Dana’s hand and not letting go.
