Just wrote the first 1,400 words of Samara Bastard. Feels like fumbling in the dark, trying to set the table for tea with glove mitts on, pretending to speak a language you don’t know.
Frustrating to say the least.
But whereas before FMW I might have stopped, stalled out, gone back to the drawing board, hemmed and hawed and deleted and gone back to do more research, maybe eventually trying it again or perhaps losing momentum and turning to something else, now I know to continue. To trust that as I go, things will come together. To make room for my creativity on the fly, to not need to have a fixed idea where things will go and how.
Sure the end result will be inconsistent, a mish mash of different ideas and takes, with characters slowly growing more realized and defined as the novel progresses, but it’s just a first draft. There’s no need to produce a polished, complete manuscript right from the get go. Rather, this is simply the first attempt. Always time to go back and revise and revise once I’m done.
Here’s a brief excerpt of what I wrote today:
One block, two, a third. Stopped. Stared. Down an alley candles glowed, arrayed in concentric circles around what looked to be two rotting legs emerging from the asphalt of the street as if their owner were buried head down below. A murmuring sound, and he made out three figures hunched in black clothing to one side, deep in the shadows, old women praying and rocking where they knelt, eyes closed and their tone fervent. The man tried to make sense of what he saw. Began to walk closer. The legs emerged from the ground at about knee level, the flesh flyblown and bloated, the soles of the feet pecked away by the attention of birds. The asphalt flowed up and around each leg without crack or sign of being freshly poured or otherwise disturbed.
The man stared, and then turned to the three women. “What are you doing?” he asked, voice a rasp in his own ears.