So I promised a friend I would finish a short story for her birthday. I haven’t written a real short story in a very long time. It took a weird turn, and it might be worst thing I’ve ever done. Regarding writing.
It was interesting observing this come together. I’m still developing my style, perspective, voice, blaht cetera.
I sent my friend the story Friday morning, apologizing up front for it.
Friday was her birthday.
I stayed up until 5am that morning writing it. Slept for less than two hours. Then I went to class. Then I went to Jackson Hole, Wyoming for the weekend.
In Times New Roman 12-point, it occupies six full pages. 2,537 words. That’s not even two days’ worth for NaNoWriMo.
This is not a novel, though.
I’ll stick the tip of the iceberg before the cut.
The jar’s contents rattled. The glass container lay packed between a pair of old tennis shoes and a blue bath towel in a grey duffel bag. As Lauren’s weight shifted from side to side with each step, some of the pieces would bounce and hit the screwtop lid with a metallic ting. It sounded like popcorn in a kettle. One of the shoe’s nonmarking outsoles somehow scuffed the jar with a series of polysynthetic rubber scratches. Other supplies lay carefully placed in the bag Lauren prepared the night before.
She brought different supplies for different jobs, depending.