Everything I’ve read, and understand, about this writing ‘thing’ is that it’s better to get words on paper, even if none of it fits the story.
Go to keep up the word count.
But, to me, it has to make sense. I’ve written 2,000 words or four pieces of paper, or 20 sheets longhand in a notebook, but it doesn’t feel right.
It doesn’t make any sense, it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t progress the story, they are just words on a piece of paper.
My life was going nowhere. If I took a step back and took a good, long, hard look at it, what could I say was the one defining moment?
There was no defining moment.
I’d bounced around schools till the day I decided I was not cut out to learn anything more, or perhaps the teachers had given up trying to impart knowledge. Whatever the reason, I dropped out of college, and drifted. Seasonal laborer, farm hand, factory worker, night watchman.
At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
Until I went home.
My parents were distinctly disappointed I was not married with children.
My overachieving brother always said I was a loser, and would never make anything of myself.
My ultra successful sister, married into a very wealthy family, had the regulation 2.4 children, and lived in the lap of luxury, mostly pretended I didn’t exist, didn’t invite me to the wedding, and I had yet to meet the husband and children. I guess she was ashamed of me.
This year I was avoiding going home.
This year I volunteered to work the holidays.
It’s about as gloomy and depressing as it gets. We’re supposed to entertain, take people out of their humdrum, mundane lives, put them in the passenger seat of a car, bus, or truck careening out of control.
Yep, time to walk away and do something entirely different, like wrapping Christmas presents, my second favorite job to mowing the lawn. Maybe if I contrive an accident with the lawn mower …
Back in front of the words, some hours later, an idea pops into my head. The story continues:
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the anti freeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in a SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope. She was leaning against her car door, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
My help, I was the last person to help her, or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
With that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.
OK, so not such a good idea to cut close to the bone here, but rivalries do make for great thrillers. Even if they are not your own!
Maybe it’s not such a bad day after all.