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.
“Brannon, I can see the door.”