It's 5:04 in the am and I've been awake for an hour, after being woken from a sound sleep. Insomnia is alive and well. This of course means that I've already checked my email, logged on to Facebook, checked on my various games, listened to David Cook sing "Lie" and stalked Chris Pine, who seems to my latest in a long line of unattainable boyfriends (I like 'em that way) via Google.
Before I go back to bed and start either chanting like a Buddhist in my head or conjugating French verbs or, God forbid, do mental math, here's a quick update:
Yes, I'm still writing.
It's going pretty well. I have 22 pages (double spaced), I'm in the beginning of chapter three, and so far, the present tense is going all right.
Here are a few lines, randomly chosen:
He sidled up to me, expectation all over his aging face. Expecting what, exactly? A welcome? After all these years, after all of the disagreements and disapproval between us, he wants me to jump up, hug him, squeal and be a daddy’s girl? Is he fucking kidding me?
Something crunches with a sickening thud—and I am looking straight up, flat on my back, unable to move. I lay on cold, gritty asphalt. Only the honking of a car, as if the horn is right against my ear, and the stopped sedan and a screaming woman glancing at me and inside her car in turn—only that is real. The car’s headlights blind me.
I can’t move. I don’t know what happened.
The man I was running from, my dad, kneels beside me and says, “You’re hurt, sweetheart. Can you hear me? You’re hurt. An ambulance is on the way.”
Then everything became sweet, silent darkness.
I shut my eyes tightly. The only thing I’m aware of is the darkness behind my eyelids, the blank confusion of my mind. And that’s when I try to push out of the confines of that mind, out of the realm of reality. If I did it once, I can do it again, so I try with my entire psychic might to push myself out of this blond creature’s body and into my own battered one again. Nothing.
A bolt of strong anger shoots through me at the thought. I’m almost breathless at the depth and strength of it before chuckling helplessly at the awesome power of rage. Me, jealous? Me, jealous of Brixton with a girl? That’s like being jealous that fish can swim and birds can fly.
Even Lindsay acknowledges that Massachusetts drivers are angry, angry people.
And the last thing running through my head was this: If Brix is cheating, then we should be through. If that bitch has wormed her way back into his heart, then I should be unspeakably angry with her and with him. Hell hath no fury like…
And even in that nanosecond of frenetic activity, I knew, somewhere in my heart, that I would never be any kind of opponent against Eva Fontaine in the competition for Brixton Davis’s heart.