This morning, I drove around, recording my Patreon address, indulging in the sinfulness of being able to do something so irresponsible and selfish (which is nonsense, since we're not yet on lockdown, but again, I'm an empathetic person, and there are millions out there who are not allowed/able to go out and do something like that, and I can't help but feel guilty for my activity), and knowing that, chances are, I won't be able to do so next week, or sooner.
I was listening to a song yesterday, and it was just so heart-breakingly beautiful that I felt utterly inadequate as a person. "If I could write something like that," I said to myself, "then surely I could be loved." And I listened to the song again* throughout the day. While I was running tonight, I thought, I'd like to write a Lara and the Witch book where Holcomb discovers that her love for the girl is greater than her love for her own life, and is forced to do something truly heroic for the first time in, well, sixty or seventy years at least. If I were a better writer, I could--
And then I realized: that's THIS book. That's what happens in this book, if I chose to see it that way. I was just so focused on the eleven year old protagonist's viewpoint, and the Horror aspects of the second half of the story, that I never shown any light on the witch's mindset and what was going on in her heart. I might have to throw a few lines in there, when I get to them, to see if I can't shine some light on Holcomb's attitude and thoughts and fears.
Or maybe that's a third book, though I really didn't want to write another one with a pre-teen Lara, preferring to skip ahead to when she's in high school. Or maybe I just won't write any more of them after this one. We'll see.
No writing today. I could drive out to the park, sit in the car for an hour or so, and pound out some words. That would be the responsible thing to do (don't let my mother hear me say that, though, since she thinks going out to get something out of the trunk of my car is putting lives in danger).
Well, I didn't do that. Big had talked about painting some of his action figures, and I was always a peer pressure guy, so I decided to do it as well. I got one of those huge Hulkbuster Iron Mans at a Goodwill (thrift store) back in September, and always meant to give it a cool paint job, but it has sat in a box in the backyard (probably collecting rainwater and black widow eggs) ever since. So I grabbed it, and sprayed primer on it before I lost interest.
Like I said last year (or earlier), I find painting to be extraordinarily relaxing, almost like taking a nap in the middle of the day, except I don't lose time doing that. But whenever I finish a painting project, I always feel sad (and wasteful) because I never do anything with the painted pieces--I don't sell them, I don't give them away, I don't display them. They just go in a box somewhere, or worse, at the bottom of the closet. and this one is way too big to display, so maybe I'm foolish there.
As far as words go, I didn't write a great deal tonight, just a bit here and there from "Three-Time Visitor," which will be my audiobook project after the Lara/Holcomb book, and then I added a bit here and there to Chapters 13 and 14.
BUT, I also discovered today that there's a half page of writing in my magic notebook from last Monday, that I didn't end up transcribing, and I didn't count as words Monday, so that, technically, screws up all my numbers for this week. Maybe I'll type them up quickly and count them for today.
Words Today: 663 (not a lot, but it's not a competition)
Words In March: 38,150
*and again and again and again and again. Oh, can't you see what I'm trying to say, darling? I'd rather have my blood sucked out by leeches (leeches), or stick my nostrils together with Krazy Glue...
Wrote today. going to bed.
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