It started with 1-3 sentences per day, unlimited editing. Then 1-5 sentences, now 1-10 sentences. If 1-10 sentences is stable for a while and it seems right I will let is stretch again in a little while. A bit over 1500 words in 15 days.
It has been interesting to watch how my relationship with the story has changed. The early honeymoon period where I loved writing every sentence and especially loved editing, it was like slowly untangling hair with a comb or slowly working wood, carving, sanding, polishing. Then came sections of loathing and confusion where I couldn't bear to look at my words and skimmed over. Having the text run dry on me, speeding up to try to get lift (ie more sentences allowed), leaping around for a day or two, then going back and building its frame some more, going back into earlier sections of the text to find out more about Jo. A fabric is starting to emerge, characters and the world are slowly developing, every day yesterday's trajectory disappears and new trajectories emerge. I think the story is getting stronger, I hope it is.
( She stayed out of the way, occasionally swigging bad wine goonie bags from sullen boys on the kerb of their lonely country town. )
I probably would have given up on the story if it wasn't a simple commitment of a few lines. It would be an embarrassing thing to fail at and there would be witnesses.
Less editing today so I've only included the last 3 paragraphs, everything else remains unchanged.
( Her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down saw many things, touched many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, Mel spoke of what those fragments touched. )
The air was crisp and cool, punctuated by the greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape, not yet dessicated by clamouring noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet.
“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurina trees nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.
Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”
Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. Mel was part woman, part myth – she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs, dumb-arse stunts and she had a habit of taking under her wing lost strays like Jo.
When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world. Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died as she ran on to the tracks, choking on the harsh dust. Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she pulled Mel up off the tracks. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it had more dignity and was a simpler story to tell.
The air was crisp and cool, with a greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape, not yet dessicated by clamouring noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet.
“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.
Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”
Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. She'd been a mother to more than her own blood, she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs and dumb arse stunts.
When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks, her first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave.
The air was crisp and cool, with a greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape and had not yet become a dessicated wraith of noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet.
“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.”
Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour as the freight train swept past. “You might as well.”
Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. She'd been a mother to more than her own blood; she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs and dumb arse stunts.
When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died.
“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.”
Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour of the freight train. “You might as well.”
Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixtyfive years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. She'd been a mother to more than her own blood; she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs and dumb arse stunts.
When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died.
Yesterday
( Read more... )
Today
“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.”
Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour of the freight train. “You might as well.”
Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with fifty years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel was fifty five, had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way.
Yumm
hugs
L
http://lizargall.com/2009/08/becaus
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