Since I've spent the last month with access only to the pen and paper style of writing, I have become addicted to creating scenes that way. Yesterday, I drafted, and typed up, one scene using Word. Last night, I wrote an extended conversation and added layers from the plot and back story to drop into the scene. If I hadn't been addicted to pen I would never have been as technical in my writing.
Spring Cleaning Time!
Life goes on
The water raged down the pane until it puddled on the deep, white sill. Not the dribbling dot-to-dot now, the constant streams were blown sideways by the breeze. I tracked the movement of one rivulet with my index finger, prodded and hoped to stop, to have any affect on the running raindrops with about as much success as I'd had with everything else, lately. With the distraction of walking washed away I'd have to wait in the house with the fosters, not literally The Fosters, just the family who'd been doing their best while I'd been doing my worst.
"We could still go out for a walk," Jo said. She was close, but not touching.
Even with the wind whistling through the crack at the base of the patio door, and the black clouds slashing the rain down, I still would have gone out. I needed any kind of distraction
But little Amy and Hannah were stretched out in front of the TV. They were singing and playing with their dolls. Mostly, they were banging the dolls’ heads together. As the silence grew louder, the plastic dancers became as still as their owners.
Waves of relief rolled down the room from the mini pop-princesses. Hannah and Amy went back to the practice. Who would have thought dolls could audition for TV talent shows.
“Well, not long now anyway, Flower." Jo patted at my arm before she straightened up and went back to the kitchen.
I stared at the drops that fell so easily. Moments later, a little plastic head rubbed at the spot on my arm that was still weirdly warm.
"Flower? Do ya' wan' my doll?"
Hannah was making the ultimate sacrifice and she was making a habit of it.
What I learned from the first piece of writing I ever started as a novel is that, even though I know the theory of how they ought to be used, I have a tendency to treat commas artistically - to paint in breathlessness with tiny black marks.