But I wrote my 600+ words this week. And I have emailed them to my friend/reader. I can check that off my list.
I think the reason it took me so long today was because I wasn't able to turn off the editor in my brain. I started out by tinkering with what I wrote last time (which actually decreased my word count).
When I realized I was supposed to actually be writing rather than editing, I wrote 100 words. In half an hour. And then it took me another half an hour to write another 100 words. And so it went. Like I said: pure torture.
Because I couldn't just spew, for some reason. I had to fricking think about every word as I was writing it. "Is this the right word? Is this what I mean?" And I'd have an image in my mind and I knew that all I had to do was write what I was seeing in my head but for some reason it was so fricking hard to do that. Like there was a disconnect between the creative and verbal centers of my brain.
Maybe I shouldn't have taken that long nap today.
But nevermind! Here's your weekly excerpt from Awakening 2, fresh from my steaming brain:
[Torren] didn’t know what has possessed him to come out to the beach on such a hot day. Even the humans could hardly stand it. Hunger had motivated him, he supposed. He was looking for someone to provide him with his next meal. He hadn’t fed in over a week, and if he didn’t choose someone soon, the choice would be made for him when the hunger overtook his reason.
Only a couple of white clouds broke up the brilliant blue expanse of sky. Children played in the surf. A dog ran with a group of boys, yapping and wagging its tail. Happy to be part of a pack. Locals and a few tourists dotted the beach with their towels and folding chairs. Tourists were rare in these parts. Most opted for the Mediterranean coast. But there were a handful of Germans. And one American couple.
He’d spotted the Americans immediately. Their clothing and flatly accented English gave them away. The woman sat in a folding chair halfway between the rocks and the water line, a floppy pink hat pulled down over her hair so far that it came into contact with the top of her sunglasses. She was pale and curvaceous in a way that was out of fashion in 1991 but for which Torren still had an appreciation from the old days. She smelled of lavender soap.
The woman’s husband was tall and barrel-chested. He smelled sour. Sweat dampened the hair at his temples and glistened in his chest hair. His name was Hugh—Torren heard the woman say it often—and he could not sit still for more than a minute or two before getting up to walk down to the water line. Rather than looking out at the ocean, though, he stood with his back to it, shading his eyes with one hand, a heavy gold watch glinting in the sun, and looked up and down the beach. Surveying it. Taking stock of the people, seeming to count them as though they were sliver dishes in the larder and he were worried he’d find one missing. Then he’d pace back and forth under the guise of looking for shells before strutting back through the sand to his wife and his towel.Stay tuned for more next Sunday! :)