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Thursday, July 29, 2010

3 Word Wednesday

This is my first attempt at 3 Word Wednesday, and I love it. Let me know what ya'll think.


The hatred I felt often manifested itself in a physical way.

Whenever he walked into the room, my stomach would cramp up. It wasn't something I could ignore, either. Though the thought of him witnessing the effect he had on me literally made me want to committ murder. I usually spent most of my morning imagining where I'd do it, and how I could take his life in the most imaginative way possible.

And I had a lot of imagination.

I would be making his coffee in the morning and he'd sneak in, late as usual, with that shit eating grin that made everyone think he'd spent the night doing God knows what, with God knows who.

I could see it on the faces of everyone in the office.

I grabbed my stomach as he passed me by, not even bothering to acknowledge that I existed. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musky smell of his cologne, wanting him, and at the same time wishing him a slow and painful death.

My stomach twisted again.

I adjusted my glasses, brushed the wispy hair that never quiet stayed in my braid out of my face.

I walked slowly, careful to not slosh his coffee.

Of course right when I turned the corner into his office, my foot caught on a wrinkle in the carpet. I felt the mug slip from my hands, the hot brown liquid flying through the air onto his ridiculously expensive rug.

I felt the flames rising up my neck to burn my cheeks and my ears. I braced myself for the inevitable abuse I'd no doubt be receiving.

For what felt like hours, all I heard was silence. I couldn't move, refusing to look at him.

His fingers digging into the soft flesh of my upper arm brought me out of my paralysis.

He jerked me to the door, throwing me off balance.

As if I needed his help!

I tripped again as he dragged me out the door and into the secretaries office.

He gave another jerk on my arm, forcing me into the spotlight.

Amused eyes watched us from each of the 10 cubicles. Some were trying not to laugh. Some of them didn't bother trying to hide it.

The horrible realization hit me that he was saving the punishment for an audience.

I heard the volume of his voice, but the words were lost to me. My eyes focused on the rug below my feet, my head lowered like a beaten dog. But all I could think of was the night before and the way he'd softly traced a line from behind my knee and up my thigh. I remembered how his touch lingered on my skin, long after he'd stopped touching me.

It had been so long since a man had looked at me, much less touched me, that I let myself be lost in the warmth of his hand on my thigh, so close, and yet not close enough.

He'd treated me like I was fragile. Like I'd break if he wasn't too careful. Or maybe like he was afraid to scare me off.

He didn't know I wanted him to try to break me. I wanted him to know just how unbreakable I was.

But then, he'd never asked me what I wanted. Had he?

His grip loosened and then he pushed me away from him. He couldn't walk away without inflicting that last bit of dignity, could he? Thank God the wall was there to catch me. I don't think I could endure being thrown to the ground.

I pushed my glassed back up my nose, brushed the wispy hair that never seemed to stay in my braid out of my face and straightened my skirt.

I cleared my throat and grabbed some towels from the janitor closet. And then I did my best to clean the mess I'd made of the rug.


The other day I wrote 2500 words. That may not seem like alot to more successful writers, but to someone whose been doing more doodling than writing over the last year, its a victory, albeit a small one.

I made the decision to write that night. I don't know why. The room was quiet or something was bothering me. I couldn't sleep.

I sat down to write.
I opened facebook.
Pandora Radio. Took longer than necessary trying to find what I wanted to listen to.
I opened my notebook (cuz I like the feel of writing on paper.)
I grabbed my pen.
I tapped the end of the pen to the music.
I stared at the blank page.
I stared at the blank page.
And I stared at the blank page.

I finally wrote a sentence.
I scratched it out.
I wrote a sentence, I scratched it out.

But then something happened. 45 minutes later, I wrote a word. That word led to another word, and another. Then I had a sentence, a paragraph, and then a chapter.

Writing is kinda like working out. You can do it when you feel like it. And you can feel proud of yourself for it.

But on the days you don't feel good about it, the days you're not in the zone- those are often the days you have breakthroughs.

Maybe you run an extra mile than you did last week. Maybe you add a 1,000 words to your word count.

I wish I could tell you that the chapter I wrote was the greatest thing I've ever written.

But I won't. I can't.

I haven't read it.

I want the words on the page. That's all.

Because I'm a writer. And writer's write.

And in the end isn't the meaning of success, whether you're running a marathon, or writing a novel, simply not giving up?

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Two Line Tuesday

You know the drill. Two lines I've read this week. Two lines I've written.

I admit it. I'm reading The Twilight Saga. Again.

From Eclipse:

The sun was so deeply buried behind the clouds that there was no way to tell if it had set or not. After the long flight - chasing the sun westward so that it seemed unmoving in the sky it was especially disorienting-time seemed oddly variable.

And two lines from my work in progress:

Much like the subtle shifting from day into night, my exhilaration soon turned to exhaustion. It was difficult to keep my eyes open.

And don't forget to head over to the women of mystery blog for more Two Line Tuesday!