The truth is, I'm a little...stuck. I keep looking at the word count to make myself feel better (78,565), but honestly, I know what I have to do, and I'm just procrastinating. The next chapter is what I consider "transitional." It serves to move the story along, but with no major events (a.k.a. sex, or fighting) contained within it, it's more difficult to get jazzed up to tackle the writing.
I also decided, somewhere along the way, that it might be a good idea to learn more about how to actually construct a romance novel. This may have been a mistake. Now I worry about "showing" instead of "telling," and the dangers of "head-hopping" (not as exciting as you think). And I have discovered that I prefer to edit as I go, as opposed to just getting the story done. How does one do that, without laboring over words?
I chose the poems for the blog at the beginning of this week. I wanted there to be a thematic arc, through the phases of life and love. Reading them was a reminder of my own journey, alone and together with the Captain, who many years ago was my boyfriend. And remembering that time has made me curious about my characters again.
I am going to try and recall the feelings I had at the beginning of the novel. I will conjure the summer heat, and warm skin longing to be touched by another's hand. I will remember the thrill of the first kiss, and the joy in stolen glances. I will close my eyes and be transported back in time to the wretched airlessness of heartbreak. Then I will wake, and, hopefully, write my happy ending.
Now, about when you find the happy ending...
The Hush of the Very Good
You can tell by how he lists
to let her
kiss him, that the getting, as he gets it,
It’s good in the sweetly salty,
deeply thirsty way that a sea-fogged
rain is good after a summer-long bout
of inland drought.
And you know it
when you see it, don’t you? How it
drenches what’s dry, how the having
of it quenches.
There is a grassy inlet
where your ocean meets your land, a slip
that needs a certain kind of vessel,
when that shapely skiff skims in at last,
trimmed bright, mast lightly flagging
left and right,
then the long, lush reeds
of your longing part, and soft against
the hull of that bent wood almost im-
perceptibly brushes a luscious hush
the heart heeds helplessly—
of the very good.