After a day of writing marketing-related materials for my friends’ business (sistersmarketing.com, to give them a bit of promotion here in case you need any items branded with your company’s logo), I finally sat down to work on Iris’ story about 7:30PM. Now it’s 9:30PM and I’ve got a bit more of the story, bouncing from nursing home to Paris to Ireland in fits and starts.
Usually, I’ve written the story straight through from beginning to end, but this year, it’s not going like that. I’ve already got some of the end, and then various pieces of the middle, and I’m starting to feel like what I have as the beginning now isn’t really the beginning at all. I’m trying to trust myself and the process and see what happens, rather than try to force things because I know from past years, that doesn’t work for me. Trying to tell a part of the story before it is ready to be committed to paper (well, screen…) results in stiff, artless prose that I end up cutting out the next day. That being said, I’m not sure all of today’s efforts will survive because the first hour involved a lot of struggle and I’m not sure it really drives the story forward yet.
Here’s what I liked best from today’s effort:
She was five days into her trip when she had reached the coast of Connaught, and fell in love with it. The wild surf crashing on the rocky beaches, the foggy air, the smell of the peat smoke curling out of chimneys, it was as if she had come home to a place she had never been. As she drove by miles of fields with broken-down stone fences and roofless stone huts, she felt transported back centuries to another time and place. Pulling off the road to buy water at a tiny store, she was entranced by the two old men sitting on a bench outside, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and speaking in a language that sounded like music.