Because I have no clue what I’m actually doing, I like to just start winging it with my writing. Which almost always leads to a brick wall. So then I go back and start looking at the structure, the bones. This isn’t a horrible thing – at least for me. There’s nothing I love more than that free writing. Nothing.
And it gives me a chance to get to know my characters better than all the questionnaire’s do.
I’m an odd duck like that.
Anyway. Here is another bit I cut out of my current project (still without title):
Several hours later, Olivia paced the length of her room, a slip of creamy vellum clutched in her hand. The scratches of red made no sense to her, despite being able to read in her dreams. Frustration coursed through her. She wanted to know if this was the invitation she so desperately wanted – needed – it to be.
A sense of euphoria shot through her slight frame at the possibility. I smiled as her excitement jolted through me, and I had not smiled in such a long time. But what else could possibly have been written in that note except an invitation? Her acceptance was a given after all, was it not?
Olivia stopped pacing just long enough to give a short tug on the bell rope hanging next to her bed. She needed Rebecca, her maid, to read the note to her. Sweet, naive Olivia never even questioned if she could trust the one in whom she confided so much.
Now, Olivia’s birth falls toward the end of spring in the month of May but the year of her twenty-first birthday was a cold one. Winter still held the Empire firmly in her icy grasp, though Spring was starting to stake a claim. Most of the snow had melted, revealing a new growth of green grass. Small buds graced the trees, some of which had even started flowering.
A chill hung in the air, yet sweat dripped into Olivia’s eyes. More deliciously wicked curses flew from her lips as she named herself a fool for closing the windows again once Mrs. Jackson left. The room was too hot, stifling.
Olivia raced to open a lone window on each wall. She gave the bell pull another sharp tug as she passed it. Moments later, she gave it a third tug, this one slightly sharper than the one before.
Brittle winds swept through the open window casements, tangling the skirts of Olivia’s dressing gown around bare ankles. She threw herself onto the bed, giving one last, frantic pull at the rope. Where is that damned maid, she wondered.
Also, it’s #FirstLineFriday, so here’s that (with added bonus of the next sentence):
But Olivia needed encouragement and support, not the crippling doubt that comes from being an object of pity. Doubt slithers in, undermines everything until one is not sure if up is backward or left is forward.