When Spirits Sag

When I made the decision to concentrate on nothing but my writing, I set a goal of finishing my novel, We’re For Smoke, by the end of October. Now, in mid August, that self imposed deadline is looming. Halloween will be here in two shakes of a lambs tail and I still have approximately 15 to 20 thousand words to write.

Sitting down at me desk has become as inviting as crawling into the dentist’s chair. I keep telling myself it won’t hurt, but I don’t believe it. The words have been slow, the dialog seems stilted, I haven’t been hitting my word count, but I have been getting words on the page.

This installment of the blog is a day late. I have a guest blog written by an extremely talented writer friend of my waiting in the wings for just such an emergency but I didn’t publish it yesterday because I didn’t miss the deadline because of an emergency, I missed it because I didn’t force my tail to sit in the chair and write.

But here it is, such as it is. I’m calling it a blog post.

The story arc I am writing for Smoke is about a mentally handicapped woman named Mary Rea. In 1915 people with mental diseases were treated a might differently than they are today. I understand that in 1915 cowboys did not have electric cattle prods. That will be changed.

Mare about Mary later, when I get my gumption back.

  Mary Rea lay in her bed like a corpse. She slept very, very, little but when her mind did let go it fell into the inky abyss of sleep like a granite boulder falling off the cliffs of the Trinity. She did not dream, she did not toss nor turn. The sheets and blanket were strewn and twisted but strewn and twisted from before she fell asleep. Once she was under, Mary Rea lay in her bed like a corpse.

When conscious, Mary’s mind and body were tortured by emotions. They were not her emotions for she did not control them. Quite the opposite, in truth, they poked and jabbed her thoughts and body like a sadistic cowboy wielding a high voltage electric cattle prod. Most nights she prowled her home, Mary always looked as if she were either prowling or running, for she was either attempting to flee the emotions or doing their bidding. Always in haste, Mary was always in haste.

When she did succumb to bed she did so begrudgingly and with a look of dread and terror in her eyes. Sometimes, as she tossed and twisted, she cried. Loneliness and fear where the only emotions Mary owned.

Cold comfort for Mary Rea.