Ok, so NaNo is not going as planned. I’m coming home and doing everything but writing. I cook supper. I watch movies with Hubby. I was off Friday, but I goofed off with him because we have few days just to ourselves. Yesterday, I had brunch with a good friend I hadn’t seen in a few months, and went to a family get-together to draw names for Christmas.
I feel guilty if I think of retreating to the bedroom to write because I feel as if I’m letting someone down, but now I’ve let myself down. *sigh* My therapist isn’t going to be very happy with me tomorrow. 😉
And while I said on my page about this site that I don’t plan on posting much of my original writing, I’m breaking my own rules and doing that here. After all, if you can’t break your own rules, how are you going to break everyone else’s?
Highway 12 runs perpendicular to Sam Bewell’s street. The triangle of land extending from that intersection north and west one-quarter mile in each direction had remained in his family for 200 years, dating back to his great-great-great-great-grandfather’s 1200-acre farm of the late 1700s in upstate South Carolina. How all that land whittled down what was owned by he, his mother and other distant relatives, Sam didn’t know. His great-grandfather never spoke of the man who came to this state to make a living off the land.
That mystery was the only one Sam knew of after spending his whole life in Springdale. He had always known what he wanted to do, where he wanted to live and whom he wanted to marry, but he had not counted on doing it all on his own. Even two years after the accident, he still experienced moments of disbelief — series of split seconds when he saw her walking in the back door, calling out her arrival and her possession of the ice cream she went out to buy.
He had one such moment this morning, as the girls refused to cooperate with the routine. One wanted cereal; the other wanted eggs. The cereal lover wanted her hair up; the egg fan wanted to wear her pajama bottoms. Sam pleaded in frustration.
“Can we just for one God-forsaken morning get ready before Nana gets here!�?
Two mouths stopped in mid-sentence, gaping open as four blue eyes flew open and fixed on him. Those eyes and those mouths — the only two signs that these two girls were related. Bethany, the oldest at age 9, stood with a hairbrush in one hand and a barrette in the other while her brown tresses begged for grooming. Megan, three years younger, had shot up from the spot on the couch, where she retreated for her sit-in to further her wardrobe cause. Her copper curls sprang from her scalp like a broken compass.
Sam thought for once he finally had their attention. Then the back door burst open and the three of them were greeted with a sing-songy “Good morning!�? The girls whizzed by him and began pleading their cases to their grandmother, who was 30 minutes early and had a bag of biscuits from their favorite fast-food establishment.
“In a good mood aren’t we, Momma?�? Sam said.
“Why not?�? she asked. “It’s Friday. Let’s get this week over with.�? He had no argument with that statement. For two years, he struggled to get through one week after another, and somehow they now added up to more than 100. Yet he felt just as lost as the day after the funeral.