I started the month with what I thought was a great idea. It went okay on Day 1 but yesterday, Day 2, it crashed and burned. Most of my 1700 words yesterday were sheer panic, blabbering, and self-recrimination, but then I put in a mood CD that had waves lapping on the beach and a story idea appeared. When I was first writing I wrote a short story about a widow opening a B&B on a Caribbean island, I remembered that I had left her there and decided to go back and make her story longer and deeper. Yay, I have a story idea! Here's a little piece:
I sit with my back against the outside wall of Jonno’s beach bar digging my toes into the sand and watching the sun sink into the sea behind the very tip of Saba out there on the horizon. It has been a long day getting here. I had to fight with the airlines to bring two big suitcases and not have to pay extra baggage fees for each and every leg of the flight. In these post 9/11 days it seems like every passenger is considered a terrorist until proven innocent. I am not a terrorist, just a grieving widow trying to get back to the last place my husband and I were happy and carefree, the last place before some insidious lung fungus took him away from me too soon. Any time would have been too soon for me. We had a marriage in a million. We were a team, through thick and thin, good and bad, and there was plenty of both, we were always in love, always friends, always together.
I have no title and she doesn't have a name yet, but, by gum, I've got a story. Whew.
--Barbara
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