Writing update: So. Many. Words. In my imagination, I used to believe in waiting for inspiration to hit like lightning and the words to rain down like a welcome deluge of logical sentences. However, this hail storm of scenes the past couple weeks that has left craters in my grey matter. I'm pretty sure an idea tornado swept through pretending it was just a smidge of info for the prequel but turned into the other half of the book. On most days, I can step back into reality and cram the fiction into its box so I can focus on things like driving and remembering to eat. On days like Tuesday and yesterday of this week, the fiction sneaks out of its box and characters trample all over those reality tasks like laundry and making dinner. The distractions make a mess of things. (It really is too hot lately for the oven to have stayed on for that long. I'm just saying... the chicken was out of the oven, it would have been nice to remember to turn off the empty heat maker inside when outside was over +35 C all day. Yeesh!)
My youngest has already chosen this poorly phone-pictured animatronic dinosaur as the one she's going to ride once she grows up and becomes a Real Princess. The T-Rex was a close second, but the Dakotaraptor won the top spot because she's prettier and still has great teeth for biting bad guys while they're out on quests and adventures. My oldest is planning to go with a Triceratops because they can stab enemies with their heads and then trample any survivors. These choices feel like parenting success. Enjoy your weekend!
2. Slow Recovery
He was hungry. He hated yogurt. He still squeezed all of it out of the tube and swallowed it. She chuckled again because of the face he made but didn’t offer him anything else but water.
“Sleep more. We’ll try chewing next time you wake up if the headache is better.”
He wondered where the yogurt had come from as he passed out.
This time it was completely dark. His head hurt more than before, but his thoughts didn’t feel swollen. Maybe that meant that his head hurt less. Nothing moved in the blackness. He could hear her breathing, slow even breaths. She was sleeping.
He felt a weight in each of his hands. Feeling with his fingers, there was a canteen in his right, and some kind of soft food in his left. He drank carefully and then bit a piece of the food. It was a Breakfast MRE – Meals Ready to Eat. Eggs. Chewing wasn’t as bad as he expected, but he was exhausted by the end of eating the whole omelet. He took another careful drink, knowing that coughing right now would probably make his head explode, then lay still in the blackness.
“You still alive, flyboy?” she murmured.
“Josh,” he answered, and his voice sounded far away. “I’m Josh.”
Then he fell back asleep.
She was watching the bright slit when he woke up. He felt hungry again, so he must’ve been out for a while. He attempted sitting up and made it, then slumped back to lean against the wall.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she said, not taking her eyes off the slit.
“Hi,” he croaked in response, hoping the world would stop rotating randomly in the next few minutes.
“There’s rations and water right there if you want.”
He looked down beside his left hand and found a pack within reach. He pulled out some food and water. His hands worked well enough to get the wrapping open without spilling, and he could eat without too much trouble. He watched her while he ate. She didn’t move.
“Where are we?” he asked when he finished eating.
“Home sweet home,” she replied.
He looked around. Sand walls, sand floor, wooden plank ceiling, tattered blankets, and enough ammo for maybe a day of fighting.
“You need a new decorator,” he said after taking another drink.
One side of her mouth curled up and he took it as a smile. She never turned away from the slit.
They sat in silence for a long time. He may have slept, maybe not. The only thing that changed was the angle of her shadow from the light through the slit.
“So, what are you thinking?” he asked, hoping to start some kind of conversation to break the stretched silence.
She didn’t respond. He picked a book out of the pack, he’d exposed it when he’d pulled out a ration, and tried to read. It made his head swim. He put it down and looked back at where she was sitting. She was watching him. He suddenly felt like a rabbit under the gaze of a wolf.
“You should get some more sleep,” she said quietly, then turned back to the slit.
Why are Authors crazy? I can't answer that, but I can provide bits of my own thoughts so that you can piece together why I may be.