But first he had to take out the .45 bullets, the cold, sharp, dead things. Not his weapon of choice on the flowers he picked up, the boys who fell for the hush, the softness of his voice, never recognized him for who he was until too late. Youth was stupid, that way. No grown man would have entered his car.
I wonder sometimes if I’m as dirty on the inside as I feel on the outside.
But the X-ray shows I’m merely broken.
Each of them can be anything, a straight line, a dusty horseshoe, an exploding seaweed, a violent flower, a taxi upturned, a vertical road, a bashed-up song, a thought without a ladder, a dancing boat, a frequency of being, an empty corridor.
But I have a character in one of my stories now, who is an award-winning author. Since I can’t get the story to close the right way, I thought I will free-write as her. In character, so to speak. And boy SHE has a writer’s block, because this is what came out:
Don’t be scared, she says, it is me, Donatella Versace. What happened to you, I ask. I went painting, she says, by the river in the rain, I could not stand this pool any more, and the rain washed away my make-up.
I have been trying to plot out a story, and here’s a page I found was quite funny yet helpful
Let’s put your character in a sticky situation!
I feel particularly evil following some of the instructions that come up on this page, and roasting my protagonist one way or the other, but that, I have learned, is the best way to create conflict.
I’ve come a long way from writing nothing for days on end, to writing 13000 words from 6th Jan to 2nd Feb. Horrible by any self-respecting fiction writer’s standards. 13000 in 28 days? That is 464 words a day, much below the 1000 words I had resolved.