Yeah baby. I did some writing today.
|Quarter Horse by Krappweis.|
As a part of my new Work Resolutions™, I’m trying to carve out a part of the day where I can still write. The question is, is it going to work? The premise is that if I start writing early enough in the day, I won’t have been sucked dry by the soul-sucking leeches at work.
So how did it go?
I spent about 45 minutes writing. I drank two coffee during that time to ensure that the muses would visit. Word goal: 500. Word achievement? 759. Not quite the lofty heights of my dedicated writing days, but I’m comfortable with that for a first shake of the stick.
I’d call that a victory – assuming I can keep it up. The devil is in the details, but a part of the success here has been shuffling my lunch beak to earlier in the day. I think this is a win for me and for work alike; it’ll let me get into work, do a bit of catch-up, do my personal stuff, and then have the large body of the day dedicated to work endevours (what they pay me for). It works best this way because as the day wears on the likelihood of a crisis increases; this ensures I’ll be about for said crisis as they happen.
We’ll see if it works out longer term.
As to the quality of the writing – well, that’s hard to tell. Here’s what I wrote today, so you can get a slice of Sadie’s life. First draft, no edits. See you tomorrow.
“I just don’t know if I love you anymore.” Sadie tightened the straps on her garters and grabbed at a shirt from the pile on the floor. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Seriously?” Aldo looked at her from the couch. “You’re doing this to me now? We’re on in five.”
“I know baby.” She shrugged the shirt on over her shoulders. They hadn’t taken the time to unbutton earlier. “But that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Well, shit.” The drummer rummaged around the pile on the floor, grabbing a pair of black leather pants. He felt in a pocket, pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. He offered her one, lighting it for her with an old style Zippo, the skull motif etched on the side worn with time. “When will you know?”
“Know what?” Sadie was working on some black eyeliner. A rush job would have to do. She pursed her lips at her reflection in the mirror, then took another drag on the cigarette.
“You know. Whether you love me.”
“I don’t know.” She took a final drag, then put the cigarette down in favour of a comb, teasing at her hair.
“You don’t know? How can you not know?”
Sadie sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. She didn’t turn away from the mirror. “It’s not that easy.”
“It’s easy for me.”
“No kidding. That was the fastest round we’ve ever had.”
Aldo looked down at his crotch, then back up at her reflection. “Hey. You said you wanted it quick.”
“I said I wanted to get it done before we had to go on. It’s not the same thing.” Sadie gestured over her shoulder with a free hand, still wrangling her hair with the other. “You should put those on.”
“Why? What if I don’t feel like playing tonight?” Aldo started putting a foot into the leather pants anyway.
“What are we, five years old?” Sadie shrugged. “I guess I play without a drummer tonight.”
“What?” Aldo stumbled as his other leg got caught in his pants leg. A year ago, he’d filled those pants out; now, not so much. “You don’t have a band without a drummer!”
There was a knock on the door. “You’re on!” It was Bernie, the stage manager. The man carried too much stress for his own good. “Don’t do this muso shit tonight, Freeman! I got a hundred people out here who’ve paid -“
“Shut it, Bernie!” Sadie turned to face the door, a hair spray can raised in one hand. “I’ll fucking be on when I’m fucking on! Seriously, don’t you have an ulcer or something to go work on?”
“Fucking musos. You’re all the same…” The voice drifted off away from the door.
Aldo was pushing an arm through a black sleeve, his movements sharp and angry. “You haven’t answered.”
Sadie gave a last flourish with the hair spray, and pouted at her reflection. Maybe too much grunge, Sadie. “What? About the drummer? I don’t need a drummer.”
“Every band needs a drummer! But no. The other thing.”
“I played two years without a band, let alone a drummer. What makes you think I need a band? Christ. Bernie’s right, musicians are all the same.” Sadie stood, grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair where she’d tossed it earlier. The leather was real, a parting gift from her father. It was the only thing he’d ever given her.
Aside from the guitar. She looked at it, leaned in the corner next to the door. A shiver tapped its way up her spine. God, but she loved to play; her hands itched to hold it.
“Jesus. You’re breaking up the band?” Aldo’s mouth hung open slightly.
“What? No. Well, not unless you’re a fucking child and stay locked in your room tonight.” Sadie pulled on her boots, the metal clasps jingling against her hands, then moved to the guitar. She almost reached for it, but turned to Aldo instead. The edge of her lips quirked, black lipstick against the pale white of her skin. “So. You playing tonight, lover?”
Aldo pulled the edges of his vest together, then ran a hand through his hair. He dropped a lopsided grin at her, and she almost wanted to take it all back. “Yeah. Let’s go, Freeman. I’ll play for you.”
She grinned back, then turned and picked up the guitar. “Ok. Let’s rock this house.” Sadie grabbed at the door, yanking it open, letting her boots clank and stomp their own way to the stage. It was time to play.