Working Title: Trinity
Today’s Word Count: 1,511
Excerpt:
Kyle found he was tired too. Tired of being their only connection to the past, tired of loving these three incredibly people, tired of wanting things for them but never being able to give it to them.
Thoughts:
I want to do so much with these characters, get inside their heads. Yet, I feel that everything I’m writing out sounds childish and discombobulated. Maybe that’s really how my characters are.
Working Title: Trinity
Today’s Word Count: 3,038
Excerpt:
He watched her move gracefully through the stacks, shelves upon shelves of genetic information, codes, and notes on everyone that had ever been inducted into the Society. More than anywhere else, it represented the true meaning and scope of the Society, borne upon the Life Bond phenomenon, maybe a bit mystical but ultimately purely scientific, logical, and practical. And seeing Cat moving through here, utterly self-possessed and confident at only 18 years old while he was still trying to figure everything out in his own life and his own place in this world, he couldn’t help but feel like, she, in her own way, personified the Society.
Thoughts:
It’s starting to flow! I just have to keep telling myself: edit later! edit later!
Working Title: Trinity
Today’s Word Count: 2,158
Excerpt:
However, when Simon looked at him, his eyes cooled, going flat, coldly assesing him. Kyle felt a small shiver running down his spine and he felt his feet hesitating. The primitive part of his mind was shrieking that this boy, this pale unassuming boy, was inherently dangerous and to turn around and run away as quickly as possible. Kyle turned a deaf ear to that part of his brain and kept walking towards the boy.
Thoughts:
It’s kind of difficult setting up a made-up place with made-up characters and try to make them living and breathing, wonderfully flawed creatures without sounding like I’m spending forever just explaining things to the reader in a tedious manner.
Working Title: Beautiful Things
Word Count: 1,666
Excerpt:
The girl that Josh had become friends with almost a decade ago had been a chaotic whirl of emotions and laughter and rapid-fire intelligence, who could gossip about the latest celebrity scandal and in the next breath discuss economic trends in the tech industry, leaving his mind reeling and his heartbeat pounding and a grin on his face. The unnaturally still girl in the small bedroom next to his couldn’t have been more different.
Thoughts:
I know where I’m supposed to be going with the story. It’s fully formed in my mind. It’s strange how difficult it is for me to write it out. Usually the words just flow out, but for this story, the words just take their time, slowly dripping out one by one.
She comes in every Monday evening, exactly an hour before closing.
Some days, she wanders dreamily among the shelves until the closing announcement, a finger sliding lovingly along the multicolored spines of the books. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with sleepiness, scan the shelves for ones that catch her attention. She pulls down the book, reads the description, flips through the pages, and ponders whether or not to add it to the growing pile she carries nonchalantly balanced in the crook of her right arm.
Other days, her steps are purposeful, her stride long and steady despite the spindly towering heels she always wore. She walks quickly to the shelves of requested books on hold and pulls down the stack wrapped in rubber bands and scrap paper with her name on them.
He doesn’t like those days so much, because she’s in and out within ten minutes and it doesn’t give him time to track her with his eyes, to ponder or dream of the possibilities.
Her dresses always swirl around her knees as she goes up to the checkout desk. He likes to watch her come towards him, her intelligent eyes gleaming with recognition, and he pretends for just a moment that she’s here just to see him. She says hello in her low musical voice, asks how he is doing. He smiles at her and says he’s doing fine, just fine. His hands are quick as he scans the books into the computer system. He doesn’t pay attention to them. They know what to do without him telling them. Instead, he pays attention to her, asking how she’s doing, asking after her family, what she’s been doing in her life. She regales him with quick, humorous bits and pieces that he stores in his memory to remember later when he’s alone at home. Too soon, he finds his hands empty, the books neatly piled on the counter. She takes them into her arms, holding them close and he looks at them longingly, enviously. As she turns to leave, he quickly calls out to her the due date of the books, and she always, always turns back, flashing one quick crooked smile in his direction, says thank you. He always, always says your welcome but she’s already gone with her long easy strides, heels clacking on the linoleum, the heavy glass door swishing closed behind her.
One day, he thinks, as he does every Monday evening. One day, I’ll tell her I’m in love with her. He knows he won’t. He always sees the simple silver band on her left hand, right before she walks away from him and he knows he won’t.