So many times I reach a point in my writing where I have a fair idea what should happen next, but the idea of working out the details makes me too tired to think. I would click off the page, vowing to "come back to it later." Eventually I did go back, but I was frustrated at how slow my progress was.
This "bad ideas" method is maybe an updated version of "brainstorming" - do people still call it that? - where you consider every idea that comes anyone in a group without judgement, and without rejection. It has helped me out of at least three writing logjams in the last few weeks, and I'm recommending it to students who are writing speeches for competition, with good results.
It's been too long since I shared an E.V. excerpt. This comes mid-way through the novel. Our would-be hero [Luis] went out drinking, believing the object of his affections [Maggie] had left town for good. He comes home drunk to find she has returned. She's been waiting up for him in her white nightgown, staying warm by the fire. Enjoy!
He took a long time
bolting the door before he turned and saw her. Once again, she
appeared as an angel in white, illuminated by a heavenly glow. He
stared in amazement for several seconds, waiting to see if she had
some divine message for him. He blinked a couple times and she became
a fiery temptress, the silhouette of her body outlined against the
flames of hell. Then his gaze of wonder shifted to the bottle of
golden rum clutched in his hand. “This is good stuff,” he
muttered. “She looks so real.”
“I am real, you
drunken fool!”
“Sounds real too.
That’s exactly what the real Maggie would say if she was here.”
With great effort, he managed to set the bottle on the table without
tipping it over.
Maggie slid past him
to unbolt the door again. “Staying out all night and coming home in
this condition are bad enough,” she hissed at him. “You don’t
need to go locking poor Yovana out on top of it all.”
He followed her to
the door, and while her back was still turned he ran his hands up
along her bare arms. Instinctively, she stiffened and gasped. “Shh,”
he told her and gently pressed his fingers over her lips. His own
lips were pressed against her neck as he spoke. “Don’t wake me
up. I like this dream.”
“This is no
dream-” She folded her arms in front of her, protecting her heart.
He swept her hair
aside and nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent. “Smells real,”
he whispered. He pulled the nightgown from her shoulder to plant tiny
kisses there. Despite herself, Maggie felt the desire well up inside
her. Lead
us not into temptation.
The phrase called to her from far away, but she was having trouble
hearing it over the sound of her own breathing.
His hands traveled
down her back, her hips, and on down her thighs. “Shh…” he
whispered against a small whimper that might or might not have been a
protest. She left her heart unguarded, using her hands instead to
brace herself against the door.
“Feels real. Real
soft.” The fabric of her nightgown bunched up under his hands as
they slid over her thighs, her belly and her breasts. She moaned with
wanting him so bad.
He pressed his body
into hers. His breath was coming fast. He reached down under the
nightgown’s hem and started to pull it up. “Maggie…” he
whispered. “Maggie, I’m …I’m…”
She put her hands
over his. “Wait, Luis, please…” Despite the full force of his
weight against her, she squirmed to face him. “Not like this. I
wanted it to be – Luis?” His eyes might have been closed in
ecstasy, but his face had gone slack and she realized ... he had passed
out.
“Why, you son of
a-” She managed to hoist him far enough away to slap his cheek. He
sucked in a breath but still did not open his eyes. She cracked him
harder the second time, which brought him to his knees.
“Now that
was real,” he muttered, rubbing the spot and looked up at her
standing over him. “Did you just hit me?”
“You insulted me,”
she told him, indignantly adjusting her clothing. “A slap on the
face was what you wanted the first time you kissed me. I was just a
little late with the payment.”
“She’s real, all
right,” he muttered. His thumb and fingertips opened and closed
against each other in the international gesture for, yak, yak, yak.
He didn’t get up, didn’t even look up. He just started groping
along the table for his bottle. Then having found it, he crawled over
to the fireplace and sat on the floor.
“So what’s with
the bender?”
“I admit, I
started drinking because you were gone.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m
drinking ‘cause you’re back..."
No comments:
Post a Comment