Alright so you might remember my sordid confession a few weeks back. The little project that is labeled "the book thing" in the file cabinet in my head. There has been much procrastination surrounding this task for about two years now. So much so that I finally sat myself down and laid out a rule. I demanded of myself that I had to begin writing, actually WRITING before the end of this month. Today at about 6:00 pm I'm proud to say I had a lovely little smattering of about 4,500 words. Not too shabby.
At this point there is hardly any eloquence present anywhere. I've given myself permission to just tell myself the story now, just to get it down. So far this results in lots of pages that sound like me, talking to myself. Rather clinical really. I wouldn't say that anything really sings off the page yet. Although in a fit of self indulgence I did manage to shed a tear while channeling a little dialogue from one of the more beloved characters. So that was nice.
Here's that bit. Which probably won't make you cry. Not even a little. ;)
"I’m not a painter, I don’t have an economy of fluid brushstrokes with which to paint for you a portrait of the events of this evening. I cannot give you a framed synopsis of what’s transpired. I only have a thousand words - a thousand clumsy, imperfect, woefully unsatisfying words. Words that hang about my head like boulders. There is so much to tell you. There is so much that is important. So much that you MUST know, and all of it at once."