So, it’s 12:04 a.m., making it tomorrow. But I refuse to accept that, primarily because finally, after not being able to write all day, I’m making progress, and I’m less than 100 words to 2000 for the day. I wrote a bunch of my next scene, but I also went back into the scene that went haywire yesterday, into the bit of it that went haywire, not to undo the haywire-ness of it, but to make it better, more gradual, more forceful.
I don’t usually think my descriptive writing is much to speak of–I consider my strength to be dialogue. But I’ve been thinking of Dexter Moon as a movie, with some very visual moments. This is one that I’m proud of. The fact that it gives me the creeps… even better. So for the first time in a while, a snippet:
It was the first time Marie had seen the girl in the sunlight like this, up close, not in the dark gloom of her room at night, in the clouded reality of her dreams.
Marie stared at her. The girl stared back. Her hair was long, but in the brightness, Marie could see it was lighter than she’d thought before, and red. It was definitely red–almost, but not quite, auburn.
Marie felt suddenly cold inside herself, and Jason’s words made sense–she felt like she could freeze to death, despite the relative warmth of the early fall afternoon. There was a deep ache that started in her throat, and trailed down to a pit in her stomach.
On the girl’s left arm, a deep scar ran from elbow to shoulder, and she could see fainter lines around her jaw. Marie lifted her hand and ran it down her own arm. Even under her long sleeves–she always wore long sleeves–she could feel her own scar.
Across from her, standing outside the courtyard, the girl did the same. Marie felt like she was looking into a strange mirror, one where her reflection did everything she did except in reverse. It was the way you were so used to seeing some part of you–a mole, maybe–in the mirror, reversed, that when you saw a photograph, it looked wrong and out of place. When Marie lifted her right arm, the girl lifted her own right arm. Her motion did not mirror Marie’s; it was a photograph instead, and it was strangely out of place.
I’m going to write my last 100 words or so to get me to 2000, and then going to bed. Feeling good about writing again, finally!