I got The First Line story rewritten and submitted today. The hardest part of it seemed to be thinking up a title. I finally settled on Not So Merry. I don't think I want to know if any of you don't like it; it's too late to do anything about it now. Maybe this time's the charm.
Here's last night's writing:
She sat gingerly on the softest place she could find, a little patch of sand caught in a depression after the last storm. Today the sea was nearly calm, well, as calm as it gets on the windward side of this scrap of an island. After last night's argument she had slid out of bed, dressed in the bathroom, and driven away before the sun had sent more than the thinnest pink fingers of light to paint the clouds. Her headlong flight had carried her up the leeward coast to the petroleum depot and then down the hill in Rincon nestled in the angles where ancient waves carved a hollow. Only a few dogs were stirring as she silently cruised down the main street of the town. Once she passed the grammar school and the soccer field, she squinted into the sunrise and turned off at the barely visible sign for Boca Oliva, her favorite wild little bay. The waves that pounded this piece of shore were born off the west coast of Africa and met no other land in their journey to these unforgiving cliffs. She loved the days when they pounded into shore with a booming crash and flung their edges skyward to patter down in suicidal blasts.
Only after I've run out of pictures will I gather all these scraps of writing into something, something coherent. Perhaps. Time will tell.
--Barbara
No comments:
Post a Comment