That’s what it feels like after you’ve put words on paper.
The story is there waiting to be written, I know where it’s coming from, I know where I want it to go, but the words are not working.
I read it once, yuk, I read it twice, it’s begging me to press the delete button.
This is how it looks:
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, farmhand, 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.
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 lawnmower …
Back in front of the page, 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 antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an 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, she 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.
To be honest, it needs some more thought. IT’s got the makings of a story, but the MC shouldn’t come across as a hopeless case, he just needs to be, in part, a victim of circumstances, some of which he has to own.
But, as they say, anything on paper is better than nothing on paper. Tomorrow, or the next day, I will edit and rewrite and see what happens.
© Charles Heath 2020