Monday, March 09, 2009

New Beginnings

Since this is the month for NanoEdmo, and I didn't write a lick during November. . .to be fair, I was in the hospital with an IV in my right arm for a good portion of it. But instead, I'm going to use this month to start writing again. Since I already edit all the time, and it keeps me from writing a lot of the time, since I edit the same thing over and over instead of adding more, I'm going to start doing writing exercises again like I did to keep the creativity going back in college. The rules are simple. You must write at least 15 minutes every day. More if you wish, but at least that. And you can write about anything. . . your shopping goals, a new story piece, why you are too busy to write for today. . . anything. You can even expand on a piece you started on another day. So. Here is the piece for Monday, March 9, 2009. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

I watched her as she sat there for a while, pen in hand poised above the blank sheet of paper. her face was lax, her mind far away from the blank stare and the empty lines. I wonder what has triggered such a journey, as her eyes gaze in the general direction of the pen, unseeing and unmoving as her fingertips. She blinks and partial thought returns as she pushes the pen to dance along the page in loops and lines forming words and thoughts, even though I can tell by her absent minded smile that portions of her mind are still far away.

"Did you need something, Commander?" The flourish of scribbles halts as she turns her face to look up at me. She's taken to speaking only in Japanese to me, my native language rolling off her tongue with an ease I can't fathom after years of English.

"No." I respond simply -- harshly, even when I know it's a lie. I need more than she can give . . . more than she knows.

"Oh, okay." She returns to her scribbles, looking over the patterns of words as if they will impart the truth, but even they seem to be lying to her today. She bites her thumb as she contemplates adding more words to the rows of letters and after a brief smile, she puts the pen back to the paper and begins to write again, my presence mostly forgotten in the flurry of ideas and explanation. I want to ask her what she's writing that's so interesting and is growing so rapidly down the page, but I don't and instead watch her for a moment more before kicking myself and retreating back to the relative safety of my office across the hall.

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