Often I wish I were already famous, like Hemingway, or Fitzgerald. I wonder how they would have dealt with family problems. Would they let it stop their writing cold, or would they just plow full steam ahead, as if nothing had happened?
Last month was a difficult month for me. I got zero done on my WIP. I did start a new story. It’s based on truth, fictionalized of course. I’m including the very beginning of it here for your perusal and, of course, critique and comments.
Barter for a glass of vodka is like a highly-skilled hostage negotiation. I have nothing tangible to offer, no currency. There is nothing more valuable than what she clutches in her hands.
She looks up at me from hooded lids, slumps against the back of the couch, sits on a carpet stained with wine spills and holes where cigarettes have missed their ashtray.
“Here’s the thing,” I venture. “How about I hold your glass for you just until we can get you on the couch and off the floor, then give it back to you?”
She mumbles something unintelligible but I think I hear the word “okay” somewhere which I mistake for compliance.
As I reach for the glass, she bends forward with it awkwardly, like a puppet on a string, careful not spill a drop.
“Julia, I promise to give it back to you. I promise.”
She still holds on. I know EMS will be here soon. I sit down next to her on the floor.
That’s it. That’s all I have so far. Tear it up. Be as critical as you can. I am subbing this to Glimmer Train hopefully. It won’t have a happy ending, but I don’t think they always expect that.
I hope you are all doing well. Peace out.
This has been a post for the Insecure Writers Support Group, which meets the first Wednesday of every month.