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An entry or part of one from Nell's diary. Still rough and needs a beginning and a date, though that can wait until I've written more of the story. I've been rereading pieces I wrote from Erica's point of view from earlier this year. I'm still deciding if the final version of the 10K story will be evenly split between Erica and Nell or if Erica's parts will be bits of her diaries and letters that Nell finds or is given.

Read more... )
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There's no use worrying about the weather outside right now. The spring is coming in sneakily as summer but we have to put up with the rain in between bouts of bright sunshine.

Autumn and winter passed isolated from me in my depressed state. I suppose it helped moving somewhere slightly new. I hope not for a simple circle of seasons now but something more akin to a spiral. Perhaps one with corners that stand out even to my dulled brain.

Without a spark is there anything worth putting down. Of course there is but there needs to be a fire to blaze so strongly that the light and heat must escape somewhere it can leave its mark when the initial flame has died. I'm surprised though to find that I keep finding embers that have not quite died. They invite me to stoke them back to life. It won't be the same fire it was at first but I must remember it will be born from the ashes and will find the fuel the old one failed to find.

Under the lighthouse I've found treasures that make my heart ache for the person who lost them. The door is closed to all who would pry. The window I see high above me is cracked from some unknown trauma inflicted either from the inside or out. Her little sister still lines up after all these years. If I could have only discovered the secrets of the modern Pharos.

I've discovered I cannot function without something on in the background. Radio, audiobooks and music. It has been the same for me since the start when it came to me on cassette tapes that are long gone, even the mystery version of Pandora's story where the horrors of the world had insect wings that fluttered against the box's lid and voices that begged and wheedled to be set free.
My room torments me when it gets into a state and yet it takes me days before I can see a way to cut through the mess. Now I need to teach myself to throw things away. It's hard for me but I must learn this lesson before I start thinking it's a good idea to hang on to real rubbish. But where do I draw the line when I still have scribbled notes for a course I will not be returning to.

And the books. So many books and I'm always buying and borrowing more. Is my stepmum right to despair?
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The tears I shed for you were the ones I shed with you. I'll share this with you too, that we were together in spirit and soul as siblings as much as lovers for there were times we were closer than friends but did not consummate that closeness.

The storm carried us away until we were lost, tossed upon the seas, swept up in the waves. Another time I walked in the snow until it was so thick upon the world that I could not distinguish a single landmark or find my way home. I always preferred being lost to knowing every step of the way instinctively.

The water is wide, I cannot get over. Not yet, not without our boat we bought together and row it in harmony until we reach the other side. That oak tree we carved our full names on as children when we played at being engaged for the first time and optimistically double-barrelled our names at 7 and 9 still stands as a testament to the falseness of childhood fantasies of romance.

Sorrow follows me everywhere I choose to wander, dogs my trudging footsteps everywhere I'm forced to flee in the direction of. The sand records my slowing steps for the briefest time as I walk towards the sea. The waves threaten to erase my most recent progress long before they can wash away my old traces that they can use to follow me easily. It is a constant race against the water.

If I can turn back and jump on a train now, I could be somewhere new by nightfall. Somewhere old perhaps. I have not been home in nearly half a decade now, not really home in any sense that I intend to stay there. I can outrun the sunset if I can only catch up to the chugging train.

When I sent our children away, I told you and myself that it was all for their own good. They must learn to fend for themselves. It wasn't even for themselves, not when you really think on it. They got their food and beds and education handed to them. They had it far better than we had ever hoped to. We weren't to know what would happen out there. We weren't to know what would happen over here either. I've called to them at nights countless times. They grow impatient with me. Their voices tell me to hush. They tell me to let them be.

When their apparitions visit me, I am shocked by their filthy faces, clear in the candlelight. They tell me I am imagining it. They are completely clean, they tell me. The rain that pours relentlessly through the hole in the ceiling washes it all away as we stand there. We are all new now. Even you and me.

The children's visits are proof of that. They don't even cry these days.
alicia_h: (Default)
I'm making a final two day push towards 50 000 words. I may not make it but the panic and the need to get something written has helped me break out of my little cocoon of first person perspective that I've been building around myself. I've finally screwed up the courage to say sod it, let's give Erica a bit of a rest for the last couple of days and find out who these other characters are.

I've ended up writing about Simon de la Mare. He was originally called Simon Tavener but this name fits him better. It was on a webpage listing common names in the channel islands and there is the obvious connection to Walter de la Mare, whose poem The Listeners has resided firmly in my head since we learned to recite it at school a decade ago. And while I try not to feel old, I want to plough on and add that the name means 'pond' so there's the obligatory Doctor Who reference without me ever intending it to be. It also feels very suitable for a man who has spent all his life living by and more or less in the sea.

Anyway, this is what I've written about Simon in my fevered nanowrimo catch up tonight. I must warn you that it's rough, repetitive in a few places where I was looking for ways to express certain thoughts, typos probably abound and there aren't any paragraph breaks bar one near the top, so I'm sorry for any injuries to tired eyes that might cause.

Read more... )

We at the very least I know Simon better and that's exactly the sort of help I need from my frantic scribblings at this moment.

25565 / 50000 words. 51% done!
alicia_h: (Default)
Up stairs and down stairs
Thin stairs, wide stairs and side stairs
Trip stairs and slide stairs
Forgotten how to climb stairs
Steep stairs and shallow stairs
Take me to the gallows stairs
Two by two only in pairs
Lose my balance and too late
I'm gone from halfway down the stairs
alicia_h: (the Doctor)
These are from rough notes from the past few days that I'd like to look back at later rather than leaving them forgotten and rotting away on my computer.

darkness swallows up the stars

Simon Tavener. Character name? (a name stolen from a reviewer on amazon - shh, don't tell him, whoever he may be). Perhaps the similarity to Simon Tam is what made the name stand out.

A Dream and dream thoughts
Locked in a room? Why? By my own choice? Granddad's? Wish I could remember details.

Don't I really wish I could remember the strange geography of dreams. Dreams that seem vividly real of walking home the way I've always walked while the streets are familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. Catching a bus near the of the hill that has also become stone wall sheltered near the Norfolk arms. Had same feeling of lostness/existential self-doubt at home last weekend
in the dark, coming the "wrong way" from the train station but still knowing finding train station after bus station as I knew it ought to be but I was in a state of panic all the same

quite an old dream

something moving in the yellow attic
which attic?
the one before we moved in with Matt?
The house with the hideous carpets
where I fell asleep kneeling at my bed
or afterwards
or was it mum's bedroom with nothing in it

two fragments
a shining red ring from Egypt's frozen tomb
or a fifth-hand housewife's treasure
passed on to help through the hardest times

beneath the eyes of those that watch
my husband's false sepulchre
the ever empty tomb
all three will be doomed to damned death

collected words, collected further

the lighthouse stairs, the lighthouse stares
mourning & morning
rag automaton


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