Yes, I know it’s Tuesday, but remember…this is how I roll. I started this post yesterday…couldn’t finish it even though I was up until midnight…so here we are!
But back to Mondays. They keep you humble. They’re awful and wonderful, all at the same time. Actually, mostly awkward. (Each day is a gift, even when we can’t see it. ) And no matter how you rearrange the days of the week, Mondays are still Mondays. You’re always going to have a first day of the week. That day you dread. That day you’d rather avoid. Or get through as quickly as possible.
I don’t know about you, but I usually have to work hard all day to regain my footing. (Maintaining it is another story.) Yesterday, the kids and I planned to leave the house around 9. We didn’t make it out of the driveway until 9:40. Despite my best intentions, we rarely make it out the door on time, although it’s usually close. Just not on Mondays.
I tell myself we need to give ourselves grace—this is not a rat race, or a competition. It’s a learning process. A refining. And if we rush ahead, more things go wrong. Or, worse, we end up up handling the little things poorly.
Writing is a lot like a Monday. We never quite end up the way we started. By the time we get the end of the story—or Friday—we’ve charged forward, made progress—and as many or more mistakes—and grew hope for a better manuscript. (AKA the weekend.) Reading through a rough draft is sometimes disheartening, but we should be grateful for the process. We all have to start somewhere. We hone our craft. Learning. Writing. Deleting. Writing more. One day we will get it right. In the meantime, we should enjoy the journey as much as possible for in the end, we’ll appreciate how far we’ve come.
Sharing excerpts of works in progress seems like the next, logical step, so I will be giving you periodical glimpses into the fictional lives of my characters. I hope you enjoy them, although without much context, you may not understand everything about them. And you may wonder where exactly where am I going with it. I’m laughing a little inside, because, truly? Sometimes I don’t know, either.
But that’s all part of the fun.
This first excerpt is from the POV of a secondary character of my Nanowrimo novel, working title, Harmony’s Tomb. For now, his name is Kirk Humphrey Scott III, and, according to a dear friend of mine who read the entire first scene, he’s a bit…unhinged. I was pleased she caught onto that, because it’s what makes him so interesting and unpredictable. Imagine the character arc you could write. It’s exciting to consider the possibilities.
A bit of background for you. This takes place in the early 1800s. Kirk is a doctor. His ways are sketchy at best. His newest (and unfortunate) patient happens to be a prisoner on the same ship. His patient is also…well, I’ll stop there. I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot sharing more details about the story than that at this time, so let your imagination fill in the gaps, if you so desire.
A small warning that this short excerpt does reference an injury, and blood, although there are no details as to what that entails. Also, forgive my errors, if you see them. These excerpts are rough drafts—they’ll likely go through a number of edits by the time I’m done.
*****
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Kirk mutters, pulling him back before he tumbles onto the floor.
His patient fights back and well, like the able seaman he assumes he is. Or, rather, had been. But, he thinks, narrowing his eyes on the festering skin, it is a never ending battle. The infection that thrives in these warm, damp quarters leeches this man of physical vitality. The damage has been done. There’s no doubt his naval career is over as he knows it. That is, if he lives through another night.
“It will never heal,” he says, looking straight into the man’s fever-bright eyes once he’s still on the cot and panting heavily. “Not in the way you want it to, anyway.”
The man struggles to keep his eyes open. “Water,” he rasps.
Kirk nods and grabs the canteen slung over a peg on the wall. He helps the man take a drink of the coveted fresh water, wondering if all the British these days are as determined as this one.
He’s been out of the country for so long, his own even longer, and deep in Mediterranean waters, he can’t be sure anymore.
Hazel eyes close. His patient’s mouth gapes open to let out a harsh breath, but the sound he makes is nothing but a rush of silence.
It’s pitiful, but nothing unexpected. The shock of pain would take anyone’s breath away.
After helping the man lie back onto the cot, Kirk considers telling him he’s on his deathbed. But the Haint—nicknamed for the contrast of dark his hair against tanned skin, the way he’s lingered between life and death—surprises him.
“Just…let me…die,” the Haint croaks out.
Kirk leans forward and smiles. “No.”
The commanding man’s eyes darken with a brittle strength. “Why?”
It’s simple, but there’s no time for him to explain the plan that will get them both off this ship. “I need you.”
The Haint licks his lips. “Don’t…care.”
“I don’t care, either.” He flashes a row of teeth. “About what you think, that is.”
The Haint’s lip curls up into a sneer. “No? They’ll come for me.”
He doesn’t correct him. If he stirs the Haint’s rage, what simmers beneath the surface, and the sick man tries to rise, opening his wound, he can’t guarantee his survival.
“Until then, I don’t think you’re in any position to argue.” He points to the Haint’s shoulder, bathed in scarlet, and drills his index finger into the red-soaked cloth.
*****
Thank you for reading! One final note. Next week, or maybe even this week if I feel inspired to post it early, I’ll share from the POV of Rebecca, my protaganist’s love interest.
