Today my day was spent reorganizing my office so that I can put an actual desk in it instead of writing at the kitchen table, where distractions abound and I cannot close the door on the cat who thinks she needs to sit on my keyboard while I type.
Some may call this another form of procrastination, but not me. I can't write if I can't concentrate. Especially since Sydney, my companion of 11 years lay at my feet at the table every day while I wrote until he passed away two weeks ago. As I sit here now writing this I half expect to look down and see his head lying next to my foot looking up at me with his big soulful eyes asking if it is time for me to love him yet.
I can't do it. Hence the office reorganization.
Ern, my husband, is going to hate it because the so-called "office" has previously been the place he can store the crap he accumulates but never uses without me seeing it constantly and telling him it is crap he doesn't need.
So, this weekend I will buy a desk and spend the majority of the weekend setting the space up the way I want it, and by Monday I will be ready to go.
See, no procrastination :)
Friday, 4 February 2011
Thursday, 3 February 2011
And So It Begins ...
Henry David Thoreau once said, "For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be: what is once done well is done forever."
This is my beginning. Whatever false starts I have had on my journey toward becoming an author end with this beginning.
This blog will chronicle the daily progress I make on my as yet untitled novel.
The book is about a woman who grew up in a small town, got out and tried to never look back. Unfortunately, the secrets she left behind call her back home where she must face the atrocities of her childhood and the one night that changed everything.
Here is the prologue:
The two girls huddled at the edge of the woods, hand-in-hand, just inside the tree line. The moon was full, affording them enough light to see him clearly. The thump-thump of his shovel striking the ground was ominous amidst the cacophony of cicadas, bullfrogs and the occasional hooting of a barn owl.
“What’s he doin’?” asked the younger girl.
“I don’t know, but be quiet, he might hear you,” answered the older girl.
“Is he buryin’ somethin’? What is it?”
“Shhh,” the older girl admonished again, leaning in closer to get a better look.
She was terrified of him, but she also was curious. What was he doing out here in the middle of the night digging a hole in the field? The planting was already done for the season and he was digging in the middle of the rows of potatoes she herself had painstakingly helped to plant in the spring. She may have been only ten years old, but on a working farm, everyone carried the weight.
Those potatoes weren’t ready to be harvested yet and besides, he was using a shovel, not a hoe. Anyone who lived on a farm knew you just turn the dirt with a hoe to harvest potatoes. He was digging to deep.
“I can’t see,” the younger girl whined in her six-year-old singsong voice.
The older girl turned to tell her to be quiet again, but it was too late. He had heard.
He stopped shoveling and turned to look in their direction.
The older girl froze. Were they far enough into the trees that he wouldn’t be able to see them? Suddenly this plan of hers did not seem to be such a good idea. What had she been thinking?
He took a couple of steps closer to the woods and peered into the dark.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
The sound of his voice filled the older girl with fear and the younger girl started to whimper.
The older girl clapped a hand over the younger girl’s mouth to keep her quiet. Maybe they hadn’t been discovered, if they were really quiet, maybe he would think it was an animal he had heard.
“I know you’re there, don’t make me come in after you,” he called.
Fear spurred the older girl into motion. Heart pounding, she began pulling the younger girl back the way they had come.
She heard him drop his shovel.
He was coming.
She pulled harder on the younger girl’s arm, trying to gain some ground before he made it to the trees, but the younger girl could not keep up.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to run!”
But it was already too late. She saw him looming above them with that sneer she knew all too well.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “What do we have here?”
The older girl recognized the look in his eyes, the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips.
He knelt down in front of the younger girl and took a strand of her dark hair between his fingers.
“I never noticed what a pretty little thing you are turnin’ into,” he said, his eyes never leaving the older girl’s face.
“You are just as pretty as your sister was at your age.”
Hours later the two girls, filthy and exhausted, silently made their way slowly and painfully back up the path to the main house, the only sound the occasional whimper of the younger girl.
They stopped at the pump house on the edge of the property.
“Now listen,” said the older girl, “you remember what he said? We can’t tell nobody. Do you remember what he said would happen if we told?”
The younger girl nodded. Her chin trembled as she said, “Daddy will kill him and then daddy will go to jail and we won’t have a daddy no more.”
“That’s right,” the older girl said, as she pumped water out of the well, “so we don’t tell nobody. We were never in the woods and we never saw nothin.”
She took a long drink from the pump, breathed deeply, and began gently wiping the dirt, tears and blood from her little sister’s face.
This is my beginning. Whatever false starts I have had on my journey toward becoming an author end with this beginning.
This blog will chronicle the daily progress I make on my as yet untitled novel.
The book is about a woman who grew up in a small town, got out and tried to never look back. Unfortunately, the secrets she left behind call her back home where she must face the atrocities of her childhood and the one night that changed everything.
Here is the prologue:
The two girls huddled at the edge of the woods, hand-in-hand, just inside the tree line. The moon was full, affording them enough light to see him clearly. The thump-thump of his shovel striking the ground was ominous amidst the cacophony of cicadas, bullfrogs and the occasional hooting of a barn owl.
“What’s he doin’?” asked the younger girl.
“I don’t know, but be quiet, he might hear you,” answered the older girl.
“Is he buryin’ somethin’? What is it?”
“Shhh,” the older girl admonished again, leaning in closer to get a better look.
She was terrified of him, but she also was curious. What was he doing out here in the middle of the night digging a hole in the field? The planting was already done for the season and he was digging in the middle of the rows of potatoes she herself had painstakingly helped to plant in the spring. She may have been only ten years old, but on a working farm, everyone carried the weight.
Those potatoes weren’t ready to be harvested yet and besides, he was using a shovel, not a hoe. Anyone who lived on a farm knew you just turn the dirt with a hoe to harvest potatoes. He was digging to deep.
“I can’t see,” the younger girl whined in her six-year-old singsong voice.
The older girl turned to tell her to be quiet again, but it was too late. He had heard.
He stopped shoveling and turned to look in their direction.
The older girl froze. Were they far enough into the trees that he wouldn’t be able to see them? Suddenly this plan of hers did not seem to be such a good idea. What had she been thinking?
He took a couple of steps closer to the woods and peered into the dark.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
The sound of his voice filled the older girl with fear and the younger girl started to whimper.
The older girl clapped a hand over the younger girl’s mouth to keep her quiet. Maybe they hadn’t been discovered, if they were really quiet, maybe he would think it was an animal he had heard.
“I know you’re there, don’t make me come in after you,” he called.
Fear spurred the older girl into motion. Heart pounding, she began pulling the younger girl back the way they had come.
She heard him drop his shovel.
He was coming.
She pulled harder on the younger girl’s arm, trying to gain some ground before he made it to the trees, but the younger girl could not keep up.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to run!”
But it was already too late. She saw him looming above them with that sneer she knew all too well.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “What do we have here?”
The older girl recognized the look in his eyes, the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips.
He knelt down in front of the younger girl and took a strand of her dark hair between his fingers.
“I never noticed what a pretty little thing you are turnin’ into,” he said, his eyes never leaving the older girl’s face.
“You are just as pretty as your sister was at your age.”
Hours later the two girls, filthy and exhausted, silently made their way slowly and painfully back up the path to the main house, the only sound the occasional whimper of the younger girl.
They stopped at the pump house on the edge of the property.
“Now listen,” said the older girl, “you remember what he said? We can’t tell nobody. Do you remember what he said would happen if we told?”
The younger girl nodded. Her chin trembled as she said, “Daddy will kill him and then daddy will go to jail and we won’t have a daddy no more.”
“That’s right,” the older girl said, as she pumped water out of the well, “so we don’t tell nobody. We were never in the woods and we never saw nothin.”
She took a long drink from the pump, breathed deeply, and began gently wiping the dirt, tears and blood from her little sister’s face.
I have this prologue and the first chapter completed. As of late I have plied myself with justifications as to why I have not been working toward completing this novel. I have decided that as of now, this justifications and procrastinations are finished. Each day I will document my progress and hopefully dispel whatever is causing my writer's block. After all, I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
That said, let's write!
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