Here goes. Loathsome stands at 23K--not a huge jump from last week, but I'm managing around 1,000 words a day. Funny how I write less in the summer when I have more "free time". (I also have a wife and two kids sharing the summer with me...and projects. Ugh...projects. I know Mr. Eyberg likes projects, but me? Meh.)
An excerpt (I'd mention a spoiler alert, but then, you don't know any of these characters, do you?):
It was early in the morning when we woke to Greig’s cries. Silas and I took turns running the shirt to the river for fresh water. We sat up with the dying man for until dawn, trying to cool the fever and make him as comfortable as possible. Just as the sun began to break over the ridgeline to the east, Greig opened his eyes.
“Get me my pipe, will ya, Yank?”
I nodded and rummaged through his personal effects until I found his pipe, a hand-carved thing from mahogany, dark and beautiful. My hands shook as I filled the bowl and fumbled with a match. Meanwhile, Silas helped prop his back against a piece of driftwood so he could sit and enjoy the smoke.
“Thank ya,” Greig muttered. He closed his eyes and puffed. The smoke wreathed around his head and melted into the morning mist. After a few minutes, he plucked the pipe from his mouth and started whistling the tune to “Dixie”. His voice gradually fell silent, and his head rocked back.
As an addendum to yesterday's post (according to Statcounter, my most read ever--not sure what to make of that), I want to be clear two things:
1) The frustration that poured over into words had been building for some time. The comments of Mr. Professional Writer were the proverbial straw that broke my back. To mention the writer by name on the post would be unfair to him (I did call him "Mr.") and me. The comments and behavior of quite a few individuals led to my open letter.
2) I am fully capable of disliking a person's behavior without having to attack the person. Welcome to the world of being a parent. Do I stop loving Owen when he throws a dirt clod into the open window of my car? Of course not. I try to make this clear to my kids. I don't know Mr. Professional Writer personally. To name names would be unduly snarky and very personal.
Look, the internet has enough of that negative karma already. That was one point I was trying to make.
I'll sign off with a quote from Mort Castle's introduction to On Writing Horror:
"Come in, and we, all of us together, will explore the strange art and demanding craft..."
Wow. "All of us together." That's a nice thought, eh?