I stayed up until almost midnight watching Anne of Green Gables. I had never read the book nor seen the movie, and I thought I should. Netflix sent it and I put it in around 8:30 not realizing that it's over 3 hours long. It's pretty good, a little dated, but I liked it, gorgeous scenery. I was so sleepy when I got into bed that I didn't read and I didn't write a prompt. Tsk, tsk. So I brought yesterday's island picture and my notebook to work with me today (in the dusting of snow that I ordered to cover up the old dirty stuff left from Christmas) and now I have something to post.
February 1--Mustique. Michelle opened her eyes and squinted against the brightness. She groaned. Was it morning already? She tried to roll over to go back to sleep but what she was laying on crackled. Not sheets. She wasn't in her bed at the villa? Her head pounded and her body felt like she had been run over by a truck. Carefully she opened her eyes again, just a slit. She was outside. She saw the pale blue sky far above with those little puffy clouds she had loved as a kid. Why was she sleeping outside? All around her were tall tree trunks, dark gray and smooth, reaching way up to tufts of fronds. Palm trees. The trees were so tall and so close together they made her dizzy. She turned her head to one side, oh more dizzy, then slowly turned it to the other side; no one was nearby. A sudden rustle made her startle and she levered herself up on her elbows. She winced at how sharp whatever she was laying on was. Dead fronds, she saw when she had lifted her head. She looked down toward her feet and realized that she was naked. Oh man, bugs could be crawling on her right now. She jumped up, ignoring the aches from the bruises that covered her and the stabs of pain in her head. How in the hell had she ended up sleeping naked in a palm tree plantation? And how was she supposed to get back to the villa? Damn Juliet and damn tequila.
I have realized over the last 2 weeks listening to my online Revision teacher that I need to torture my characters--and I don't. I think I do but when I reread what I write I haven't. I give them these molehills and roadside ditches of obstacles when I should be throwing mountains and canyons in their path. All that's about to change, baby. No more Mrs. Nice Guy; I'm ready to throw the full arsenal at these poor people. If I can keep from skittering away from the edge myself, that is.