Writing About Writing Instead of Writing

Okay, I admit it. I’m guilty. I’ve spent more time writing about writing this week than actually writing what I’m supposed to be writing. Does that make sense? Haven’t gone much past the once upon a time, so to speak. I could give you lots of excuses, like how this horrible head cold has distracted me for over two weeks now. Or maybe I got immersed in a really good book. Then the kitchen needed cleaning. And I had to Skype with my grandchildren.

What I really need is a kick in the pants, figuratively speaking.

So . . .

Today I am going to spend a lot of time with Julia, my main character. She is a strong young woman, having survived unspeakable terror at the hands of her husband. She has a story to tell, sometimes unwillingly, but she knows it’s the only way she can move on. And there is a baby daughter out there somewhere that needs finding by the mother who never wanted to leave her in the first place.

Julia’s story begins in 1946, seven years after her baby was taken away.

          The Greyhound pulled away; a cloud of diesel fumes roiling in its wake.

          I stood on the deserted platform watching the bus disappear. Icy wind clawed at my thin coat, threatening to tear away the  useless garment. I was numb with cold and felt dead, inside and out. Dead, old, and used up.

          I was so tired. Tired of living. Would the pain ever leave? That gnawing, exhausting pain? 

          “Ma’am?”

          A booming voice penetrated my subconscious and I slowly became aware of my surroundings.

          “Is someone coming for you, dearie? It’s getting late and it’ll be pitch dark in an hour.”

          “No.”

          “Well, isn’t that something. You come all the way to Pine Creek on the bus and there’s nobody here to greet you when you get off,” the man shook his head in disbelief.  “Where are you staying, dearie? I can take you in my Ford if it isn’t too far.”

          “I’d rather walk.”

 

Now I’m motivated. See you later!

 

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