I finished the story yesterday, writing out the final few scenes in a rush. Not that I had to get up and go, but rather the words came falling from my fingers like rubble and dirt from a bulldozer scoop when it dumps its cargo into the back of a truck. Kaboomph! A haze of dust lingers in the air, people cough and wave their hands before their faces, hitching their kerchiefs higher over their noses, and the bulldozer rumbles back to scoop up another payload.
Polichenelle’s Wife comes in at about 10 pages, some 5,600 words. It was more brutal than I had anticipated, and I’m not sure what readers will derive from it. There are plenty of different ways to interpret it, I think, and it will be interesting to hear people’s takes. I’ll send it out to some friends now, and-
Well, no, I guess I won’t. I’ve got to do at least one edit, don’t I. A run through, a spell check, make sure the sentences parse and the language is right. Curse this whole editing mentality that working on Crude Sunlight has forced upon me! Is my innocence forever shattered? I guess I’ll have to drag out my red pen and squint at the text and run the thread of the tale through my fingers like a spinner running flax through –
(had to go check Wikipedia to ensure metaphorical integrity)
– like a spinner feeding threads into a spinning wheel. Or a spindle. I’m not quite at the spinning jenny level yet, though.
I’ve lost track of where I was going with this. Time to eat lunch.