Kazoom! Man, my wrists are growing sore. No distractions today, albeit a little brunch date in the morning, and then, whazamo, writing madness. Except, for most of the day, writing madness meant reading, lying in bed, thinking, and trying to figure out what exactly to write. Which, for the first half of the day, came in spits and spurts and drips and drabs. Muddled out some 2,500 words (which I actually liked quite a lot), and then stalled out completely. Dead in the water! Cursing and gnashing my teeth, I paced and muttered, thought and plotted, planned and puttered. Cor blimey, what a seething white period of utter unproductivity. Finally I sat down, put on some good music, and simply began to write.
And it came! Like gold running down the perfect funnel, hounded out of my system by block blasting beats, by music and desire and practice and fun. The characters took hold, and out it came. I’ve written some 7,000 words thus far, and think I might try for another couple of thousand before I call it quits. Here’s an excerpt. Enjoy!
Mounted figures were riding out from the cross street ahead. She caught her breath. Beautiful, she thought, beautiful. A torrent of horses, tall and graceful, long legged and with arched necks, their manes wild and uncombed, eyes leaving streaks of bloody crimson behind them like smears of light across photographs of late night traffic. Coalblack horses and dawn gray horses, ten, twenty of them, raising their heads and racing forward as if into the surging foam of an oncoming sea. And riding them impossible men and women, so svelte and lithe and elegant that they seemed the dream creations of clothing designers who gave no thought or care for the realities of human limbs and proportion, who stretched and demanded the impossible from their models until they cried and bled and failed. But not these. Long limbed and alien eyed, clad in armor attic and elegant and variegated, made of a metal unknown to her eye that gleamed like the oil slick smears across the common asphalt of gas stations, fluted and spiraling, horned and detailed with impossible finesse and skill. Urging their horses on, blowing on quenna horns made of human bones, high pitched spiraling cries that melded with the first mournful horn so that a cacophony of death and sweet promise of torment reached their ears.
And I’m done for the night. Wrote some more, and would perhaps continue were my wrists not getting sore. Need to keep them strong for the last remaining day. Total word count for Tuesday: 8,350. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.