Ernest Hemingway has a famous quote, “write drunk, edit
sober.” Given Hemingway’s proclivities
many people believe this to be literal.
Others believe that it is a metaphor meaning, when you write your first
draft write with wild abandonment and save your intelligent critical analysis
for the second time around. That is
pretty much what novel writing month is all about; giving your imagination
permission to run wild; throwing caution to the wind when it comes to
punctuation and grammar; not caring if your dialogue is cheesy or if your plot
is cliché. What I’m about to do is
extremely difficult for me. First
because I am a perfectionist and second because I believe that my fiction
writing is rubbish. That is why I rarely
let others read my fiction, but in the spirit of Nanowrimo here is what I have
been working on this week, wild, untamed and…absolutely unedited.
“You really
can’t see the door? It’s rectangular and
green. There is a round ivory handle and
the lock is shaped like a flower.”
“I really
can’t see it Brannon.” It was first time
she had ever said his name. There was sincere disappointment in her voice. “I guess we are not meant to destroy the
world or have riches after all.”
Brannon
approached the door once again. He
looked at the mark on his palm. He
wondered if he touched the door if his arm would burn again. It did.
Then he had an idea. It was a
crazy impulsive idea.
“Annick,”
she was busy unpacking both of the bags trying to extract all of the cooking
utensils. The fire light bounced off of
her face; her brow was furrowed with concentration.
“Annick!” he
yelled trying to break her concentration.
She looked up. “Annick come over
here for a minute.”
“I’m trying
to find something for us to eat.”
“Just for a
minute, I have an idea.” Annick stood
up; brushing dirt off of her skirt.
“Come on,”
pleaded Brannon. She came over, her arms
folded over her chest.
“Fine, I’m
here, what is your idea?”
“Hold my
hand.” As soon as the words escaped his lips he realized that he should have
chose his request more carefully.
“Huh?” replied
Annick
“No…it’s not
like that. I just want to see
something.”
“Oh, like I
haven’t heard that before.” Annick kept her arms firmly folded.
“I’m
serious. Please, just give me your hand
for one minute.”
“Fine,”
huffed Annick, stretching out her left arm toward Brannon’s right hand. Brannon intertwined his fingers with
hers. It felt awkward.
“If it burns
or hurts, try not to let go.”
“What?”
Annick tried to pull her hand away, but Brannon gripped it tightly. He
stretched out his left palm and pressed it again the door. The same burning pain ran up his arm. Annick gripped his fingers so tight he
thought they might break. She must have
been feeling the pain too. Then the pain
faded giving way to a comfortable warmth as though someone had wrapped his body
in a blanket that had been warmed by a fire.
“Brannon…Brannon!” He hadn’t even noticed that he had closed his
eyes.
“What?”
“Brannon, I
can see the door.”
