Does anyone else get tired when they try to write? I'll sit down, get ready to start writing then immediately my mind is like, " I'm tired, nap time?" And while I do try to fight it, I end up napping instead of writing
I made some huge progress on this short story I started, but it's starting to feel stagnant to me. Any ideas?
Story is under the cut and while not going into great detail, it describes an injured person.
I jolted awake as something grazed my side. Not her sneaking into my bed, not the fact she’s practically laying on me. It was her fingers, her hand had slipped from it’s place on my chest down to the side of my ribs. She twitches her fingers in her sleep. Its actually cute.
I pat her head as she sleepily groans and wraps her arms around my neck.
“What’s wrong? A nightmare?” Sophie yawned, laying her head on my shoulder.
“No. That’s not even possible with you by my side. Did your bandages changed, since we’re both awake?” I asked, gently gliding my hand from her head to her back and feeling the patch job I did earlier through her shirt.
Sophie sleepily and softly mumbles a response, that I don’t quite catch so I asked her to repeat herself. She said no, this time I noticed the slight rasp in her voice. I made a mental to make her hot tea with honey to help with that. We went back to bed without incident for the rest of the night.
That morning Sophie wasn’t by my side. She had already gotten up and stared breakfast, as the smell of coffee and bacon greets me in the hall. I sigh, shaking my head. I’m certain I told to rest today, especially with her injuries. I find her in the kitchen, at the stove, eggs now sizzling in the pan. I clear my throat to get her attention. She turns to looks at me and musters a small smile despite the pain she’s in.
It was brutal. Her lip is split, some of her teeth are missing, her left eye was removed and a few finger tips of her right hand. Let’s not forget the slash marks on her back. I wonder what was going through her head during all that, did she think she’d die? Was she still holding out hope? Could she even think of anything other than the torture inflicted on her?
I walked up and hugged her, gently lifting her head to look at me.
“You should be resting, love. You already pushed yourself up and down a set of stairs, against doctor’s orders.” She just nods, I can see the her bruises more clearly now, the ones around her neck especially stuck out since they’re still pretty dark while the others were starting to fade.
“Can’t speak today?” I asked. She took a moment to process the question and nods. I kissed the top of her head and began to lead her away, when I smelled the eggs starting to burn. So did she, as she quickly turned back and turned off the stove and moving the pan swiftly to the next burner. She sharply inhales as the pain of the quick movements shoots up her fingers and back. I step forward and hold her in my arms.
Working in early education and being a horror writer on the side is actually very convenient because children regularly say and do terrifying shit - the other day I had a kid (who is working on building phrases of like, 2 or 3 words at a time) stop EVERYTHING mid session, look to an empty corner of the room, point, and say, in a near-whisper: "monster...."
Now, because I'm a professional, I did the adult thing and gave a model for how to expand this into a phrase: "ohhh no... the monster..."
And the kid looks at me, nods sagely, and agrees: "it the monster..." He then went about his toddlery business like nothing happened, while I made a mental note to avoid that corner of the classroom for a while. Inspiration can strike anywhere and it has sharp, invisible teeth
Cherry found herself starting to be aware of her breathing, and couldn’t make out any sounds with the loud ringing in her ears. Her body felt heavy and lethargic, her mind feeling like its slowly being pulled out of a thick fog. The air felt cool as she inhaled, that’s when she noticed her full body actually felt chilled.
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