The following are two solutions to recent writing prompts in a critque group I am a part of:
***
Solution 1:
I'm a wimp, and pain is my enemy. Nevermore has this ever been more true than now. Green, also not my best color, is my constant companion in the damp forest. It is enveloping, compressing... it is suffocating. It hurts almost worse than my arm.
The drizzling rain, however, is refreshing, and promises to wash away the fear that swells in my chest whenever I think of Steve, and his big game hunter cronies who convinced me to tag along on this excursion of pain. It would have been fine if it weren’t for my inconvenient tendency toward clumsiness—and that very steep hillside peppered with boulders the size of Cleveland.
“Stay here, we’ll get help.” Sure, sure, famous last words, and the last words out of Steve’s mouth before he and his fellow gamesmen took off in search of the main path, and what passes as civilization out here in the middle of nowhere.
What’s a girl from Chicago doing in the middle of India in a forest downpour? Freezing, that’s what. The very thought of making camp out of nothing is not my general idea of a good time under the best of circumstances. With an 'it's probably broken' thanks for the astute observation, Steve, arm it’s not even my idea of possible. The boys generously left me the jeep for a bed. Like they had a choice after it steadfastly refused to even attempt a start. Turn the key, nothing. Not even a cough. To top it off, it has more holes than a pastry strainer, the only thing passable as a bed in it is the backseat, and it’s a waterbed.
I have a pocketknife. The trees are the size of an elephant’s leg, and I have a pocketknife. Should I forget to mention it later, said pocketknife is buried in the trunk of a tree. That’s where it landed after I opened it, found it to be as useful to my pitiful attempts at slicing through a branch as a freshly cooked spaghetti noodle, and then providing a formidable foe upon trying to close the contraption once again. There must be a trick to it known only to a secret society of lumberjacks, or men with sadistic senses of humor, and a desire to make women look stupid. At least I know I have a fair pitching arm, and could probably beat Steve at a game of darts… thinking seriously of using his head as a target if I make it back home.
Steve was also kind enough to leave me a source of refreshment. Two unopened bottles of Root Beer. Now I have nothing against Root Beer, although it’s far from my favorite source of libation, especially under the circumstances when a double shot of Jack would be much better, but I have a real problem with bottles of Root Beer that require a bottle opener… when said bottle opener walked away in the pants pocket of my considerate fiancée.
So I’m sitting here writing to you, Mom, as I pray for a swift return of my beloved who will live to regret this day if I have anything to say about it. I have only one plea, and that’s that you promise not to say I told you so, should I make it out of this mess alive. Or that you remember me should I not make it back, because darkness is falling rapidly, and there are noises in the bush around me that you’re not likely to ever hear in Chicago.
Love,
Me
*****
Solution 2:
Enveloping darkness. It felt good. A drenching rain, a steamy pavement beneath my feet, and a cold, hard piece of metal in my hand—That felt good too.
The rain washed away my remorse. What there was of it. Was I becoming as cold as the night I walked in? If I was, it felt good too.
Someday I think I'll look back and wonder if I was insane that night. Maybe when I sit in my rocking chair and look out over the prairie, if I ever get that cabin, that is. If I could make it back to the apartment without being found, maybe then I could relax. Maybe then I could dream about a cabin on a mountainside, overlooking a valley of tall grass. Maybe then I could dream of peace.
I don't know if that dream will ever come true, or if I'll ever find peace. All I know is, tonight, one of the dreams of my life had died, and that felt good too.
*****
I had fun writing both of these. They are both different in genre style than I usually write, and I can't decide which, but one of those will be the premise for my next WIP (if I ever get out of the never-ending tailspin my current one is in so close to the end).
With this dilemma fresh in my mind, it occurred to me that as writers we are faced with more decisions in one day than most face in a month, or maybe even a lifetime.
Do I kill this character? Does this one find true happiness? Do I use TNR or Courier? Is there enough of a story arc? Character arc? Should I build an ark and forget about writing altogether?
Coffee, or gin?
As writers we are faced with constant crisis’ in the lives of our characters that we must solve, or make worse (*wicked grin*). We live several lifetimes in a year through the pages of our manuscripts. And then watch as they are torn to shreds by editors, agents, and the like.
I haven’t solved my decision dilemma today, but I have figured out one thing—writers are masochists.
