I’ve been thinking about writing lately, dusting off my keyboard and working hard to pull myself out of the writing crash I experienced about a year ago. To be honest, there have been setbacks and struggles and I have not felt like writing on many days that I have…written anyway. On days when I feel like I can’t write anything of worth I have decided not to try to write anything of worth. I just write something and carry on in hopes that the next day I might have something more interesting to say. Sorry if you, dear reader, have been a victim of those posts I’ve written on bleh-writing days. I beg your forgiveness…just know I’m trying here, I really am :o)
I have spent a little time messing around with an attempt at fiction, and since LL is leading this “Not Writing” idea I’ve found myself thinking more about it. So, here’s a little more from the Novel I’m Not Writing…it’s not chronological with what I posted earlier, but it’s part of the same effort.
Salome’s slim figure darted between the rugged bulk of working fishermen. Along the shores of the Sea of Galilee she wove, pausing only now and again to stand tip-toed in the warm and pebbly sand. Stretched tall, slight and slim like a river reed she paused, her hand shading frantic eyes that scanned the shoreline. “Zebedee!“ she called, the white sleeves of her fine-cut robe flapping like flags around thin brown arms as the wind pulled at her. She called once more, her voice carried only a moment on the wind before fading into the lapping waves and the raucous conversation of those busy workers on the shore. Then she was running again. Running with one hand atop her head to keep a light blue shawl from slipping, spinning, floating away on the stiff sea breeze.
The fishermen looked up to see her and quickly looked away, turned to grunt quietly or shake their heads. These stocky pillars of men shied away from the unusual sight of a woman among them, all the more so when the woman seemed distraught, unrestrained. As she passed, they returned to twisting flax through wounded nets, mending rips with quick and calloused fingers. As Salome neared the shore she passed men pulling ropes from sea-slicked boats, floating nets of fish in shallow water to wait for market’s measure. Still, she did not see the familiar shape of her husband. Her rising panic drove her to run faster, frantic, the wind whipping her robes and tugging at her hair, stinging her eyes. As she passed a group hauling in a net, sloughing off weeds and water and teeming with fish, one gnarled trunk of a man caught her eye. He motioned with a jerk of his head as his hands continued to reel in line. Her eyes turned in the direction of the nod, darted over the sun-hardened faces to find her husband’s familiar one not far away.