Tension

Ok, so it's Wednesday morning and I just realized I forgot to post on Monday.  I have been so wrapped up in my latest project, and every moment I get to write, I'm diving back into that world with those characters. Writing a blog post fell completely off my radar. 

Here's the thing: In the first novel I finished, I got to one of the climactic moments, and writing became ... intense.  The emotions, the action, the reactions of each of the characters, the roiling emotions of my main character, and the continuing action ... it was thick.  I would sit down at the computer for an hour and barely squeeze out 200 or so words (coming from someone who can lay down 1,500 in a good hour, when things are moving well).  I knew what I wanted to write and where I wanted it to go, but the progress was so agonizingly slow!  I would read the last few paragraphs I'd written, to remind myself where I was, then spend time tweaking them to make them just right (I know they say you shouldn't do that with a first draft, but sorry, it's just the way I write) then write another 200-400 words and find myself drained.  (Do you know what I mean?  Creatively drained?)

Here's the good part: back then my critique group was working on a chapter by chapter basis, and when I turned that chapter over to them, they loved it!  I was so worried the struggle I'd fought to write it would come out in the writing, that it would be awkward or confusing.  Nope.  They loved it.  And reading through it again and again, while revising, I can honestly say I think some of my best writing is in that chapter.

I can only hope I will be able to look back and say the same for the chapter I've been working on this last week.  It has kidnapping, betrayal, a (hopefully) thrilling chase, and even a pack of wild dogs.  I get SO excited about it!

In honor of my manuscript, the prompt this week is:  When you can't flee, you fight.

Enjoy!

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My response:

(First, a confession - I came very close to just posting part of this last chapter I've been working on and calling it good, but in the spirit of this blog, I won't do that.  I'll write something else.)

My feet pounded the wet pavement of the alleyway, and I cursed the rain.  Even if they couldn't see me in the shadows, they would hear the splashing and know I was there.  I dared a glance over my shoulder, but it only confirmed what I already knew: I hadn't lost them yet.  The only thing I'd managed to do was get myself lost.  They knew just where they were, though.  I heard Kirk's high laugh behind me before I turned the corner and saw the brick building.  Who had even designed this place?  Who let someone build right up to the edges of their lot, blocking off the way completely?

I cursed and spun around.  Nothing but a few trash bags and flattened cardboard boxes sitting outside a steel door that had a padlock hanging from it, not even windows.  I heard footsteps turn the corner behind me, and my stomach tightened into a rock.  I turned, my fists coming up automatically as my knees bent.  Seeing Kirk and his three cronies made me want to step back, but I knew that was a bad idea.  The alley was tight enough without putting my back to the wall.

"You think you're some kind of hero, going off to college, do you?" Kirk drawled.  "You too good for us, now?"

I shook my head.  "You know that's not it, Kirk."  I wondered for just a moment what my chances of talking my way out were, but I settled on zero.  If Kirk had really wanted to talk, we could have done that outside the theater.  At least I'd gotten Becca to safety before it came to this.

Kirk charged.  He'd never had much finesse.  He didn't even take a swing, trying instead to ram his shoulder into my stomach.  He wanted me down.  I sidestepped and took an easy shot to his kidney as he went past.

He stood up and spun around, eyes wide.  That was the first time in our lives that move hadn't worked.  "Punk!"  This time, he came swinging, but sidestepping wasn't the only thing I'd learned while I was away.  I blocked with my left arm and brought my right fist up into his jaw.  I felt the impact of his bones slamming together, and my heart faltered.  My arm, however, carried through, driven by muscle memory and hours of repetition. 

Kirk's whole body rose up with the impact, and then he was flat out on the asphalt in front of me.  His eyes were closed, and he didn't make a noise.  I looked over him at the boys who'd been his shadows.  They looked at Kirk's still body, then at each other, and turned, running off into the shadows.

"Brilliant."  I cursed my conscience.  Kirk spent three days tailing me, and when I finally laid him out flat, I couldn't even just walk away.  Maybe it would be different if we hadn't grown up together, but if I leave him and something happens, I would never be able to look his mom in the eye again.

I reached down, slipping my arm under his shoulders and pulling him up.  I smacked his face with my free arm, and he moaned.

"Come on, Kirk, come on.  Let's get you home." 

The Blank Page

I hate staring at a blank page.  When I have a story, and I'm not sure where to start, I can't just sit there and ponder with a clean slate in front of me.  It's too stressful.  Instead, I jump in and write something ... anything ... to avoid looking at the blank page.  (Much like I'm doing now!)

But here's the thing: You can always go back and change it.  If you started in the wrong place, no problem.  Go back and cut or add more to fix it.  If your voice was a little off because you weren't sure where you wanted to be, you can rewrite it after you've finished, when the voice is more concrete in your head.  In the end, having an imperfect piece of writing is infinitely better than being stuck on that blank page.

The prompt this week is twofold.  One:  Follow my writing prompt and post your comment.  Two: Go to your current writing project and add 2000 words to it this week.  Don't let that blank page or the question of where to go from here stop your progression as a writer.  Anything, no matter how imperfect, is better than a blank page.

This week's writing prompt:  "It was past crazy.  Like ... playing chicken with a gas tanker crazy."

Enjoy!

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My response:

The hole was black as Hell, and we were sure to end up there if we kept on with this crazy idea. 

Krista let out an adrenaline-fueled giggle, the notes echoing through the black circle at our feet.  Sara punched her in the shoulder, jerking her head towards the ritzy hotel sitting at the bottom of the slope.  The hot springs pool was open twenty four hours, and while no customers were there, a pair of bored lifeguards lounged outside the snack shack.

Maggie was the only one not hyped up.  She held her phone in both hands, scanning it around slowly.  I could see her setting up the video in her mind.  It would start with a panorama of where we were, explain the stunt, and then, after she'd signaled us, scan over to four girls in ski masks, hair tucked neatly away and only long, tanned limbs to identify us.  The first video had gone viral, the third one made international headlines.  YouTube fans clamored for more.

And Sara's ideas, reckless from the start, were getting to be downright dangerous.

I eased up to the edge, careful to stay out of Maggie's shot, but I needed to get a look for myself.  This hot spring had been blocked off for years, ever since some kid drowned in it.  It was in a hollow cave that went straight down into the granite of the mountain.  Ninety feet above, a hole allowed sunlight in.  The hotel had carved out a second entrance just above water level and built a dock, but that was all boarded up  now.  It had taken all four of us to pull the manhole cover off the hole at the top... the cover intended to keep people out.

Deb waited until Maggie stepped back, then knelt down next to me.  She pulled a handful of light sticks out of her bag.  Glancing behind her, she made sure her body was between the lights of the hotel and what she was doing.  I maneuvered myself to make sure no one on the road could see.  She snapped a stick and tossed it down towards the side where we suspected the dock would be.

The light fell too quickly, faster than my eyes could adjust.  All I saw was the glimmering of moist walls before the plop of the light stick into water, then darkness.  Three more times we tried before she found the dock.  Then we peered down.

"Is that only ninety feet?" Krista whispered, the shock of it squelching her giggles.

"Don't be a baby, Krista." Sara growled, shaking out her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail.

Deb looked up at me, her eyes dark in the moonlight.  "Do you think it's possible they drained it?"

I shook my head slowly, trying to think.  Could you drain a hot spring?  Did it just look bad because we were at the top looking down?  Was it me, or did that dock stick out awful close to where we'd be falling?

I caught Sara's eye on me.  "If it had been drained, we'd still be able to see the light sticks that fell in the water, right?"  I returned her glare.  I wasn't afraid.  Or at least, I wouldn't give her any reason to call me on it.  "I'm sure it's fine."  I forced my legs to straighten and strode back over to our stuff, stripping off my t-shirt to reveal my black cami and running shorts, our trademark outfits. 

It's go time.