The Worm Has Turned

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*-TOO MUCH INFORMATION

My free write meme from the writers group last night. The part in quotes is the meme-ish bit, the rest is mine. Though I want to edit, I've promised myself I won't. Later I will of course, but not just now, this is exactly as I wrote it last night. It hardly feels like last night, it feels like it happened days ago.

"He ran the sharp edge of the knife across his thumb..."

A thread of blood appeared, a trace of the heart life. He smiled ruefully at the sting of pain--so honest and clear. The pain never lied. How would he bring that truth to the other? It was necessary.

He felt the rough bark of the tree through his washed thin t-shirt. The grating, grabbing feel kept him in this world, sawing into his back. He pulled in a long, slow breath and the scent of the earth at his feet filled him. The coolness drew into his lungs and spread through, expanding, opening, bringing him back to the night and the tree and the foot path before him.

Another inhale--the scent of the stream just a few yards away--the noise came to him, sweet, wet churning over the rocks, tiny fishes flicking and the sounds of frogs.

He put his thumb to his mouth. Pressing the back of his head to the tree, sucking at the copppery taste. The truth flowed into him. Out and back in, that was the way. Senses tuned now, he just had to wait. No thinking. No planning. Just instinct. When the other came along the path, journeying out of the woods and back to the town--then he would act.

He glanced down to the right again at the path worn through the grass, worn by the years of the others going into the woods and leaving truth there, not bringing it back. It was wrong. He would make it right.

Which of the others would it be? The old man, the teacher keeping...

And that's as far as I got in fifteen minutes. It's not much, is it? It fills nearly two pages in my notebook, hand-written. But it's not much. I don't know if I'll go anywhere with it. Can I make my character, who ever he is, be...not me? I have such trouble writing people who aren't some facet of myself. That doesn't get you anywhere. You have to inhabit the character somewhat, but you can't always be writing yourself, playing out your own fantasies. Or can you? No...you can, but that doesn't make for a well-written story, does it? I don't know. I don't know anything right now.

I've watched The White Countess and maybe I shouldn't have because watching Ralph Fiennes do emotional pain always gets me aroused and I haven't anyone to turn it on. I'm going to go read a Falco mystery. Immerse myself in ancient Vespasian era Rome. Lindsey Davis, I covet thy talent.