This is my first attempt at 3 Word Wednesday, and I love it. Let me know what ya'll think.
Abuse
Cramp
Hatred
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.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Uninspired
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?
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
It Takes a Village
I'm back to work from being put on bedrest during my last month of pregnancy, recovering from childbirth, and then undergoing a (not so major) surgery.
Half of me is glad to be back, but the other half still thinks I'm never going to get back on track or find a routine that I can easily slip back into.
It makes me extremely thankful that I don't have to do it alone.
Its not just my husband, who lets me sleep in on Saturday or who wakes up for the 3am feeding.
Its not just my mom, God bless her, who when I'm in tears from hormones or exhaustion, or a combination of both, takes her grandkids so I can get a single night of rest.
It's not just my cousin, who even if we weren't related by blood, would probably lay down her life for me.
Its the other people, too. The ones who throw you showers, or drop off diapers, who crowd into the hospital room even though you're throwing up, and there's already so many people in the room that they're spilling over into the hallway.
Since we moved around a lot as a kid, I think I missed out on that sense of community that people are talking about when they say "It takes a village." But this weekend, celebrating the birthday of a friend, I couldn't help but remember the "good old times."
I went to college at WTAMU and the people that I met there are some of the same people who are helping me raise my own sons, today.
I remember the guy who was so painfully shy he hugged the wall at most parties, and the girl who had a painful crush on him.
I remember the boy who was afraid to hug me, afraid to get too close to anyone it seemed.
And of course I remember the twins,so full of life and chivalry! Pulling out our chairs and standing up when we came to the table.
That girl with the painful crush won her man and now they have a beautiful life together and a beautiful daughter to show for it.
That boy, though he has no children of his own, has no problem playing the favorite uncle, not only for his own nieces, but for all of our kids.
And the twins have grown into wonderful husbands and fathers who can still make being "childlike" an art form.
We've lost some friends along the way, but picked up a few down the road. Hell, some that had been missing even rejoined the fold! It takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes it takes a village to shape ourselves as well.
What would college have been like for me without you, Nathan and Sarah, Shawn, Tim, and James? What would life be like now, without you, Donnie and Kissaundra? Crystal and Rusty? Vanessa and Clay?
James and I sometimes talk about opportunities to move to a bigger city, where we could make more money, have better jobs, live in a more exciting city.
In the end we always stay. We stay because you are our village, and life wouldn't be the same without you...
Half of me is glad to be back, but the other half still thinks I'm never going to get back on track or find a routine that I can easily slip back into.
It makes me extremely thankful that I don't have to do it alone.
Its not just my husband, who lets me sleep in on Saturday or who wakes up for the 3am feeding.
Its not just my mom, God bless her, who when I'm in tears from hormones or exhaustion, or a combination of both, takes her grandkids so I can get a single night of rest.
It's not just my cousin, who even if we weren't related by blood, would probably lay down her life for me.
Its the other people, too. The ones who throw you showers, or drop off diapers, who crowd into the hospital room even though you're throwing up, and there's already so many people in the room that they're spilling over into the hallway.
Since we moved around a lot as a kid, I think I missed out on that sense of community that people are talking about when they say "It takes a village." But this weekend, celebrating the birthday of a friend, I couldn't help but remember the "good old times."
I went to college at WTAMU and the people that I met there are some of the same people who are helping me raise my own sons, today.
I remember the guy who was so painfully shy he hugged the wall at most parties, and the girl who had a painful crush on him.
I remember the boy who was afraid to hug me, afraid to get too close to anyone it seemed.
And of course I remember the twins,so full of life and chivalry! Pulling out our chairs and standing up when we came to the table.
That girl with the painful crush won her man and now they have a beautiful life together and a beautiful daughter to show for it.
That boy, though he has no children of his own, has no problem playing the favorite uncle, not only for his own nieces, but for all of our kids.
And the twins have grown into wonderful husbands and fathers who can still make being "childlike" an art form.
We've lost some friends along the way, but picked up a few down the road. Hell, some that had been missing even rejoined the fold! It takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes it takes a village to shape ourselves as well.
What would college have been like for me without you, Nathan and Sarah, Shawn, Tim, and James? What would life be like now, without you, Donnie and Kissaundra? Crystal and Rusty? Vanessa and Clay?
James and I sometimes talk about opportunities to move to a bigger city, where we could make more money, have better jobs, live in a more exciting city.
In the end we always stay. We stay because you are our village, and life wouldn't be the same without you...
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Progress
I know posts about New Year's Resolutions are probably a dime a dozen right about now but I just wanted the people who follow me to have a little update.
I, like most people I know made a few resolutions myself. The cliche.. lose weight. That one's gone out the window. Pregnancy kinda has an adverse affect on that one and my doctor told me no go... which is good cause throwing up again was definately NOT on my to do list... Excercise more... not happening. But the ones that I am keeping track of are going very well.
I'm making a list (and checkin' it twice!) heh, just kidding. I'm making a list of to do items and making sure I get at least a few of them done everyday. It helps to keep me focused, on track, and I'm well on my way to setting a routine I can live with. Not every day goes as planned, and some days I do less than others. But the point is that actively participating in my own life instead on watching as it passes me by.
One of the main things that I wanted to do this year was get back into school and change my career path. I'm tired of bitching about my job all the time, its time I do something about it. But once again the whole pregnancy thing is throwing me off. School for me would start 3 days after the baby is due and no Super Mom, Student, Woman could handle that much pressure, so I'm putting it off until next year. But I'm ok with that. I've mad a plan and I have something to look forward to. Plus it'll give me a change to work on my dedication and to stucture my life around the things I really want.
But what I'm super impressed with is that I've been writing every night. So far the book is packed away (all 3 of them actually) and I haven't so much as looked at them. But I'm not pressuring myself about it or feeling guilty that its in a box on my desk. I'm taking baby steps and I'm writing every night. Hopefully that will blossom into writing fiction every night.
The big one that I'm working on, and its kinda harder than I thought It'd be, is that I was going to give up TV.
I just can't do it. I think I'd rather diet.
So I made a deal with myself. If I Have to watch TV, I have to write a review of it. I had a practice with Heroes and Dollhouse last week and I wrote my review of Heroes last night. You can check it out at www.huddlekay.wordpress.com.
Please read and tell me what you think. do you watch Heroes? Do you agree with me or disagree? More importantly, how's the writing? 'Cause I've gotta say, I have no idea what I'm doing.
I, like most people I know made a few resolutions myself. The cliche.. lose weight. That one's gone out the window. Pregnancy kinda has an adverse affect on that one and my doctor told me no go... which is good cause throwing up again was definately NOT on my to do list... Excercise more... not happening. But the ones that I am keeping track of are going very well.
I'm making a list (and checkin' it twice!) heh, just kidding. I'm making a list of to do items and making sure I get at least a few of them done everyday. It helps to keep me focused, on track, and I'm well on my way to setting a routine I can live with. Not every day goes as planned, and some days I do less than others. But the point is that actively participating in my own life instead on watching as it passes me by.
One of the main things that I wanted to do this year was get back into school and change my career path. I'm tired of bitching about my job all the time, its time I do something about it. But once again the whole pregnancy thing is throwing me off. School for me would start 3 days after the baby is due and no Super Mom, Student, Woman could handle that much pressure, so I'm putting it off until next year. But I'm ok with that. I've mad a plan and I have something to look forward to. Plus it'll give me a change to work on my dedication and to stucture my life around the things I really want.
But what I'm super impressed with is that I've been writing every night. So far the book is packed away (all 3 of them actually) and I haven't so much as looked at them. But I'm not pressuring myself about it or feeling guilty that its in a box on my desk. I'm taking baby steps and I'm writing every night. Hopefully that will blossom into writing fiction every night.
The big one that I'm working on, and its kinda harder than I thought It'd be, is that I was going to give up TV.
I just can't do it. I think I'd rather diet.
So I made a deal with myself. If I Have to watch TV, I have to write a review of it. I had a practice with Heroes and Dollhouse last week and I wrote my review of Heroes last night. You can check it out at www.huddlekay.wordpress.com.
Please read and tell me what you think. do you watch Heroes? Do you agree with me or disagree? More importantly, how's the writing? 'Cause I've gotta say, I have no idea what I'm doing.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A Heart Shaped Pebble in a Parking Lot Full of Rocks
November and December are, by their very definition, months of reflection.
We're meant to ponder what we're thankful for-focus on what the holidays are truly about. We're meant to embrace kindness and love, and to tap into that thing that for most of the year, remains elusive-our own humanity.
But sometimes it harder than it should be.
Sometimes we remember that November is the month that our father died-that this is the first holiday season without our figurehead, our clan leader, our reason for celebrating in the first place.
Instead we as a culture declare the day after we're supposed to be our most thankful, Black Friday, and we start the first day of the Christmas season by celebrating commercialism instead. We want more for less and we want to be first in line, no matter how nasty and mean it may make us.
When my father died, nine years ago this month, it was hard to remember that the holidays weren't just about food, football, and shopping, but he managed to show us, and he continues to show us that we aren't alone. We can't hear his laugh or watch his belly shake like the famous fat man himself. We can't hug him or be encouraged by him (or enraged at him either.) We can't watch a grown man brought to tears by the reading of the Christmas story on Christmas Eve, but in his own way he lets us know he's near.
He sends us hearts.
Hearts in the oddest places. Our pancakes come out heart shaped or the reflection from sunlight hitting a piece of glass will show up on the wall in the shape of a heart. We'll see heart shaped knots of wood in furniture and in trees, in potato chips and the pepperoni on our pizza.
The last few months for me have felt like I tripped into an open grave, in the rain. I keep trying to climb out of the pit I've admittedly dug for myself, and the walls turn to mud in my hands. It seems like everytime I make a little progress I slip back down again.
I've been pretty discouraged. I've complained about my job, I've complained about my life. I've complained about missed oppurtunities, even as I stand on the corner and wave as they pass me by.
But it's days like today, a day as normal and bland as any other, where I cleaned my house with my husband and we played with our son, to remind me that it's not always the big moments, it's not always the weddings and births and celebrations that matter.
Sometimes it's just a hand to hold- a shoulder to lean on- a smile from a stranger- that's what we live for-that makes life living.
So here's what I'm I'm thankful for this holiday season.
I'm thankful for a good book.
A well written poem.
I'm thankful that I'm a woman. Because being a woman sometimes means that you're sick for months at a time and tired and cranky and tearful and sometimes whiny. But I'm thankful that I'm a woman because it means I'm strong enough to create life- and then nurture that life with love and laughter.
I'm thankful that I have a home and that it's more than just brick and mortar.
I'm thankful for friends and family- even the ones who aren't here physically but whose spirit does surround us. Even if somedays their spirit isn't enough, I'm thankful that today it is.
I'm thankful for heart shaped pebbles in a parking lot full of rocks and red birds that sit in your driveway and wait patiently while you scurry around her in preparation for a funeral.
And above all else- I'm thankful for oppurtunity (and for those who give their lives for us to take it.)
I'm thankful for an unspoken thought that suddenly becomes a dream, that a dream can take root and become reality, and that that possibility -even if it remains unfullfilled-means that there is never too far to fall before you pick yourself up again and move forward.
I'm thankful that there is no better time than the closing of one year, to remind us that there is always a new beginning, a new chapter, a new oppurtunity to be human, to be happy, and to be thankful.
We're meant to ponder what we're thankful for-focus on what the holidays are truly about. We're meant to embrace kindness and love, and to tap into that thing that for most of the year, remains elusive-our own humanity.
But sometimes it harder than it should be.
Sometimes we remember that November is the month that our father died-that this is the first holiday season without our figurehead, our clan leader, our reason for celebrating in the first place.
Instead we as a culture declare the day after we're supposed to be our most thankful, Black Friday, and we start the first day of the Christmas season by celebrating commercialism instead. We want more for less and we want to be first in line, no matter how nasty and mean it may make us.
When my father died, nine years ago this month, it was hard to remember that the holidays weren't just about food, football, and shopping, but he managed to show us, and he continues to show us that we aren't alone. We can't hear his laugh or watch his belly shake like the famous fat man himself. We can't hug him or be encouraged by him (or enraged at him either.) We can't watch a grown man brought to tears by the reading of the Christmas story on Christmas Eve, but in his own way he lets us know he's near.
He sends us hearts.
Hearts in the oddest places. Our pancakes come out heart shaped or the reflection from sunlight hitting a piece of glass will show up on the wall in the shape of a heart. We'll see heart shaped knots of wood in furniture and in trees, in potato chips and the pepperoni on our pizza.
The last few months for me have felt like I tripped into an open grave, in the rain. I keep trying to climb out of the pit I've admittedly dug for myself, and the walls turn to mud in my hands. It seems like everytime I make a little progress I slip back down again.
I've been pretty discouraged. I've complained about my job, I've complained about my life. I've complained about missed oppurtunities, even as I stand on the corner and wave as they pass me by.
But it's days like today, a day as normal and bland as any other, where I cleaned my house with my husband and we played with our son, to remind me that it's not always the big moments, it's not always the weddings and births and celebrations that matter.
Sometimes it's just a hand to hold- a shoulder to lean on- a smile from a stranger- that's what we live for-that makes life living.
So here's what I'm I'm thankful for this holiday season.
I'm thankful for a good book.
A well written poem.
I'm thankful that I'm a woman. Because being a woman sometimes means that you're sick for months at a time and tired and cranky and tearful and sometimes whiny. But I'm thankful that I'm a woman because it means I'm strong enough to create life- and then nurture that life with love and laughter.
I'm thankful that I have a home and that it's more than just brick and mortar.
I'm thankful for friends and family- even the ones who aren't here physically but whose spirit does surround us. Even if somedays their spirit isn't enough, I'm thankful that today it is.
I'm thankful for heart shaped pebbles in a parking lot full of rocks and red birds that sit in your driveway and wait patiently while you scurry around her in preparation for a funeral.
And above all else- I'm thankful for oppurtunity (and for those who give their lives for us to take it.)
I'm thankful for an unspoken thought that suddenly becomes a dream, that a dream can take root and become reality, and that that possibility -even if it remains unfullfilled-means that there is never too far to fall before you pick yourself up again and move forward.
I'm thankful that there is no better time than the closing of one year, to remind us that there is always a new beginning, a new chapter, a new oppurtunity to be human, to be happy, and to be thankful.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Beneath the Skin
So I'm having a strange week. A good week, but a strange one none the less. First off, my mom makes this comment. "I just finished reading this book by "insert best-selling author here" and I couldn't stop thinking that I wish you'd finish your book. You're so much better than he/she is."
Now I don't put too much stock in the comment since it came from my mother, but it gave me a little flutter in my stomach anyway.
Then Monday morning I wake up at 5am and Braden and Alex are tormenting me. For 2 hours they keep asking me questions. What if this, what if that? You know if you wrote this, this might happen.
Again I shrugged it off. See I haven't so much as doodled my name on a scratch piece of paper in months, and every time I see my notebook laying there, I kinda cringe, and truth be told get slightly nauseas. this could be due to the pregnancy, mind you, but I don't think so.
Then last night my husband gets a new TV, so he's busy putting it together. *Yawn*
So I grab a book that's been on my bookshelf for months. I have no idea who the author is (Nikki French) and I can't remember why I picked it up at the half priced bookstore in the first place, except perhaps that I liked the title (Beneath the Skin)
By page 3 I'm saying "wow", by page eleven the world around me has started to blur around the edges,I'm vaguely conscious of the fact that my husband is speaking to me, but the words are muffled as if I'm wearing earmuffs.
I'm in the story.
I'm standing on the streets of London watching a man and woman jumping off a moving bus. I can smell the smells of summer, and I can taste the cherries Zoe is eating. I hear the thud of the woman's head as she hits the pavement, can feel the thick sticky blood pouring out of her mouth, the broken tooth scraping my fingers.
For the next 419 pages I'll be walking the streets of London, being stalked by a madmen, and I'm going to love every minute.
So thank you Nikki French for getting under my skin. For making me want to study writing again, not just pass the time with a good book.
Opening Line Chapter One
"I wouldn't have been famous if it weren't for the watermelon."
Setting
"It was hot, but that may give you the wrong impression. It may make you think of the Mediterranean and deserted beaches and long drinks with colorful paper parasols dangling out of them. Nothing like that. The heat was like a big old smelly mangy greasy farty dying dog that had settled down on London at the beginning of June and hadn't moved for three horrible weeks."
Character
"Normally the choice of books that I read to my class is dictated according to facist totalitarian principles imposed by the government, but this morning I'd rebelled just for once and read them a Brer Rabbit story I'd found in a cardboard box of battered childhood books when I'd cleared out my Dad's flat. I'd lingered over old school reports, letters written before I'd been born, tacky China ornaments that brought with them a flood of sentimental memories. I'd kept all the books because I thought one day I might have children myself and then I could read them the books that Mum had read to me before she had died and left it to Dad to tuck me into bed each night, and reading aloud just became another of those things that were lost, and so in my memory had become something precious and wonderful. Whenever I read aloud to kids there's a bit of me feels as if I've turned into a soft, blurred version of my mother;that I'm reading to the child I once was."
All in 15 pages.
That's what I'm talking about.
Now I don't put too much stock in the comment since it came from my mother, but it gave me a little flutter in my stomach anyway.
Then Monday morning I wake up at 5am and Braden and Alex are tormenting me. For 2 hours they keep asking me questions. What if this, what if that? You know if you wrote this, this might happen.
Again I shrugged it off. See I haven't so much as doodled my name on a scratch piece of paper in months, and every time I see my notebook laying there, I kinda cringe, and truth be told get slightly nauseas. this could be due to the pregnancy, mind you, but I don't think so.
Then last night my husband gets a new TV, so he's busy putting it together. *Yawn*
So I grab a book that's been on my bookshelf for months. I have no idea who the author is (Nikki French) and I can't remember why I picked it up at the half priced bookstore in the first place, except perhaps that I liked the title (Beneath the Skin)
By page 3 I'm saying "wow", by page eleven the world around me has started to blur around the edges,I'm vaguely conscious of the fact that my husband is speaking to me, but the words are muffled as if I'm wearing earmuffs.
I'm in the story.
I'm standing on the streets of London watching a man and woman jumping off a moving bus. I can smell the smells of summer, and I can taste the cherries Zoe is eating. I hear the thud of the woman's head as she hits the pavement, can feel the thick sticky blood pouring out of her mouth, the broken tooth scraping my fingers.
For the next 419 pages I'll be walking the streets of London, being stalked by a madmen, and I'm going to love every minute.
So thank you Nikki French for getting under my skin. For making me want to study writing again, not just pass the time with a good book.
Opening Line Chapter One
"I wouldn't have been famous if it weren't for the watermelon."
Setting
"It was hot, but that may give you the wrong impression. It may make you think of the Mediterranean and deserted beaches and long drinks with colorful paper parasols dangling out of them. Nothing like that. The heat was like a big old smelly mangy greasy farty dying dog that had settled down on London at the beginning of June and hadn't moved for three horrible weeks."
Character
"Normally the choice of books that I read to my class is dictated according to facist totalitarian principles imposed by the government, but this morning I'd rebelled just for once and read them a Brer Rabbit story I'd found in a cardboard box of battered childhood books when I'd cleared out my Dad's flat. I'd lingered over old school reports, letters written before I'd been born, tacky China ornaments that brought with them a flood of sentimental memories. I'd kept all the books because I thought one day I might have children myself and then I could read them the books that Mum had read to me before she had died and left it to Dad to tuck me into bed each night, and reading aloud just became another of those things that were lost, and so in my memory had become something precious and wonderful. Whenever I read aloud to kids there's a bit of me feels as if I've turned into a soft, blurred version of my mother;that I'm reading to the child I once was."
All in 15 pages.
That's what I'm talking about.
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