Writing what truly matters

The sunset at Samoa Beach from a few days ago....

Yesterday morning I sat down to write. Which meant first I read over the previous chapter, which took about fifteen or twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen. I had written perhaps two paragraphs, then my computer and monitor died.

For seconds I inwardly shrieked. Going to my feet, I turned on the light, which worked. Which was even more frightening; what the heck was wrong? I called for my husband, who is a superhero; he noticed I had inadvertently with my shoe unplugged the power strip my computer and monition are both plugged into. DUDE! The computer turned on fine, my document saved, though not completely. A few sentences from that day's writing were all to remain before the document self-saved everything.

For another few seconds I was.... Not terrified, merely slightly downcast. Yet I was also greatly appreciative that everything in the previous chapter I had altered was SAFE. No idea what I had changed, but those changes weren't affected. My writing for that day was...truncated. I sincerely thanked my spouse, sat at my computer, reading those brief bits that no longer appealed. Instead I deleted them, saved and closed the manuscript, then hauled another from my Books folder, revising one chapter. Then we ran necessary errands, and later in the day I barely considered what might occur tomorrow.

And now it's tomorrow. And much to my joy, I simply sat down and wrote a chapter without unplugging my computer, WHEW! Also LOL, because that little bump could have derailed my forward progress on what is maybe more than a short story, probably a novella for Suze, Richard, Gilly, etc. And that's FINE. Whatever this second part of On Being Brave turns into is exactly what it's meant to be. I merely need to be brave enough to go forward fearlessly, not feeling at the mercy of this world, nor worried about its aims and intrigues. Which might sound over the top, but ask any writer how they would react to even a few paragraphs lost, and you'll understand. We have to take the good with the bad, fully trusting the end result is what it was supposed to be despite what we think it should have been.

Ahem....

Anyways, here's the last scene of today's chapter, between the now thirty-three-year-old Gilly Lund and her partner Ross. For Gilly's backstory, check out Home and Far Away. And for other tales in this series, start with A Love Story. And have a wonderful day!

 

 

Gilly was in bed before Ross, which he accepted was probably the easiest way for them to maybe fall asleep. Not due to jet lag, he permitted, but from his own stupid pride. “You still awake?” he whispered.

“No,” she said tersely.

Ross sighed, pulling back the covers, but not laying down. He sat on the flannel sheets that Suze always had waiting for them at this time of year. California felt especially cold, which Ross allowed was mostly due to how far away Gilly seemed, as well as Hugh. “He doesn’t look so bad,” Ross said softly.

“No, he doesn’t,” Gilly muttered, her back to him.

Ross nodded, then sighed. “Shall I sleep downstairs?”

“Tomorrow you can. After you tell Dad.”

“I’m telling Richard?”

“I told Mom. You can tell my father.”

Ross bristled from how Gilly said my father, as though Ross was barely more connected to these people than Careen. Careen, Ross snorted. What an asinine name. “You Americans call your kids such ridiculous names.”

“Don’t get started with me,” Gilly retorted.

He shook his head, but something in her tone begged him to continue. He knew she couldn’t stand Hugh’s erstwhile girlfriend, one of the few things she had talked about when she got home that had been safe. Safe as in this Careen had nothing do to with how out of love Ross felt for her, before she left of course. After Gilly came home, Ross hated her merely because he’d missed her so much, couldn’t imagine living without her, other than her attachment to this place, which previously he’d loved, but of course Kevin had fucked that all up and….

“Are you coming to bed?” Gilly softly barked.

“Uh, yeah, soon. Why?”

“Because you moved the blankets off me and now I’m cold.”

Ross ached from her bitterness, and from how indeed he had exposed her to winter’s deep chill. Not that in Melbourne their temperaments matched the season, but at least at home he wasn’t chilled from this deeply inside. Part of it was Liza’s awful absence, Hugh’s decline, and the sense from Richard that nothing would ever be the same even if this ghastly Careen returned. Even if she came back, she couldn’t save Hugh’s life.

Ross snorted, tucked the blanket against Gilly’s back, then stood. “I’m going downstairs.”

“Fine,” Gilly said flatly.

“Fine,” Ross replied aloud. Fuck you, he added in silence.

Gilly said nothing, but her audible snort seemed to answer the same.

Ross smirked, put back on his robe, then his slippers. He exited their room, hearing nothing from anyone on that level of the house, which meant Richard, Suze, and Hugh had probably heard everything Ross and Gilly had exchanged. Why can’t I be telepathic too, Ross pondered, taking the stairs, hearing pops from the front room fire. He went into that room, the fire’s glow hypnotic. He sat on the sofa closest to the heat, closed his eyes, then wept briefly. All of this would be a memory, like Liza, their parents, how much happiness he and the angry woman upstairs had once shared.

Several minutes passed as Ross pondered better moments of his life; meeting Gilly in Paris while on holiday with his family. Even Tamara and Willa had joined them, all five Whitlows sticking out as blatantly as any other tourists, yet as soon as he’d spotted Gilly, Ross wondered if he’d landed on another planet. He had, he learned much later, once he’d returned to Paris on his own, convincing Gilly to move to Melbourne after she graduated uni. He was two and a half years younger than her, his brash headiness luring her away from Dominique Durand, who at first hated Ross for taking Gilly away. Would Dominique care that now Gilly was nearly back in America? Would she still mildly resent him?

Did anyone here realize how much Gilly wanted to be like her mother, traipsing all over the planet in search of…. Ross still wasn’t sure what Gilly needed, not him certainly, though their soon to be fully announced break-up was indeed his doing. She would die living here, he mused, all her enthusiasm and energy wasted in some backwater, podunk…. He smirked, much of her language now his language, her family all he had left. His eldest sisters and their clans rarely came to Melbourne now that their parents were dead. And Ross rarely visited them. His life was that of a realtor in Fosters Square, never married to a woman he still adored, but who was destined for other things.

What the fuck those other things would amount to here in Jumpville…. Ross grew angry, much at himself, some at Kevin, a little at Gilly. She was a brilliant psychologist, her talents utterly wasted so far from a big city. “Stupid fucking….” he muttered under his breath, then immediately he sucked back much of that disgust as Richard cleared his throat in the hallway.

“Ross, that you?”

“Yes,” Ross said, feeling like one of the Lund boys. The eldest, he allowed, as Richard entered the room, seating himself on the telephone table chair.

“Thought I heard someone,” Richard said.

“And so you did.”

“I did.” Richard glanced at the fire, then stood, putting the last piece of wood on dying coals. They sparked, sputtered, then caught in a manner that Ross wished was how he could recapture Gilly’s heart. Richard retook his seat, then cracked his knuckles. Yet he didn’t speak, making Ross even angrier with Gilly. Had their argument been her way to spur Ross into telling not his father-in-law but a man nearly that vital, that loved….

“Shit,” Ross blurted.

“Yeah?” Richard said.

“Uh….” Ross studied the flames, now burning brightly. “Did you overhear us?”

“Uh-huh. You don’t argue quietly.”

“I see.” Ross sighed, then gazed across the room, but Richard wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the fire, which seemed already to have waned. It was only one piece of wood, Ross allowed. “Well then, I guess I don’t need to tell you why I’m down here.”

“No, I guess you don’t. You need some bedding?”

Ross smiled, for Richard’s tone wasn’t that of sorrow. It was straightforward, how Ross had always heard this man speak. Even after Liza died, Richard’s words of solace hadn’t dripped of angst. Maybe because he’d buried one wife already, Ross considered. “I might,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

“Well, I’m glad you made the trip,” Richard smiled. “Hugh was looking forward to seeing you.”

Ross shivered. “I, I’m sorry, I mean…. Christ!”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch.”

Going to his feet, Ross faced the dying flames. One piece hadn’t done much, other than prolong what to Ross was indicative of more than Hugh’s lifelong battle for…. “I still love her, but I fucked it up royally.”

Richard made no sound, but the fire popped violently. Ross wondered about the veracity of his words. He did love Gilly, but hated being made to feel like he had to make amends with a man he truly loathed. Wishing he was telepathic, Ross sighed, then turned around, finding Richard gripping his knees, staring at the floor. Then Richard gazed at Ross, something on Gilly’s father’s face making Ross suck in his breath. Pain and sympathy were hedged by a small amount of resentment, a notion Ross found odd in this man’s usually kind eyes. Richard Lund seemed to own infinite patience. That late night, it was missing.

“I felt like that once, well, a couple times.” Richard smiled, then sighed. “Hard to make the peace when it’s the last thing you think you can do.”

Ross wasn’t sure what Richard was referring to, then Ross rolled his eyes. He glanced at the sofa, would sleep there that night, then tomorrow he’d make plans to fly home. He couldn’t stay here the next two weeks, and would look for a new place to live while Gilly celebrated with people he would never fully excise from his heart. They would become like Liza, stones over which he’d trip until he was dead.

Richard stood, then placed the grate in front of now what were only small glowing embers. “Extra bedding’s in the laundry room,” he said softly. “And there’s quilts in the living room if you need more.”

Ross nodded, but wouldn’t use those heirlooms. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, get them.”

Richard nodded, cracked his knuckles, then headed for the doorway. He paused, then again faced Ross. “Don’t take this the wrong way Ross, but I hope you and Gilly can work through this. But if it’s really over between you, well, I hope you can find some peace.”

“What’s wrong about me and Gilly staying together?” Ross asked.

“Nothing, it’s more the peace I meant. See you in the morning.” Richard sighed as he headed upstairs, making Ross shiver. He sat back on the sofa, staring at the now dead fire, hearing what he thought was Gilly crying from overhead.