[Nanowrimo Update] Day #6
As of right now, I am:
A) at 21,470 words.
B) in the midst of Chapter 5 (that may be split into two chapters, but who knows at this point)
C) technically way ahead, but in terms of plot and the book itself, I'm at page 56 of my draft and have a looooot more to go before the book is actually done.
Here's the most recent excerpt, what I've written so far today:
Fletcher was awake, and when he heard her footsteps, he looked up. “Lilly,” he said. He didn’t look particularly surprised. “I was wondering when you’d show up again.”
“How are you feeling?” She felt awkward; here he was, in a pale blue hospital gown, and she was in her professional best. His dark hair was uncombed, and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. His jawline was rough with stubble. Fletcher looked a good five years older than he was in that hospital bed, and he moved as slowly as an arthritic. He grimaced when he reached for his water, and Lilly reached over to bridge that gap between cup and fingers.
“Been better,” said Fletcher. He took the cup, and said a little begrudgingly, “thanks.”
“No problem,” said Lilly. She hovered awkwardly around his bedside, an indelicate hummingbird waiting for a perch to present itself. She was uncomfortable around him because she didn’t know what to say. And Lilly had two modes of being: completely open, or completely closed. She didn’t like when middle ground presented itself. “Medication got you loopy?”
“They lowered the dosage,” he said. He hadn’t offered a place for her to sit, but there was a cushioned chair in the corner, and she dragged it over so it was as close to his bedside as she could get without intruding on his personal space. “You want to ask more questions, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Lilly. She settled down in the chair, rummaging around in her bag. She paused, mid-act, and said a little too quickly, “But I also wanted to see you. See how you were holding up.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
This was what she missed, what Marshall lacked. With Fletcher, everything was bluntly unsentimental. He didn’t discuss feelings, he didn’t go on hunches, he didn’t manipulate people. He didn’t delve into people’s brains and peel the lobes apart to see what made them tick and then rearrange them to serve his own purposes. Fletcher was simultaneously opaque and transparent, and was, if nothing else, a constant and solid presence in Lilly’s life.
“You got shot,” she said dryly. “And almost died.” She paused. “I almost stepped in your blood yesterday.” She didn’t know what made her say it, but it was an oddly private thing to do: blood was meant to stay inside the body. It was the spilling of something private, like personal dreams and fears and insecurities, and she felt she’d had no right to step there.
“Huh.” Fletcher didn’t seem to think much of it, but then again, even after five years of working together, Lilly still had trouble reading him, peering through the layers and layers of curtains that obscured his inner workings. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and felt somehow like she had said something she wasn’t supposed to. So she moved onto better subjects. “Any visitors?”
“People in the unit, mostly. My sister apparently has a flight arriving tomorrow morning - told her it was pointless. I’m still alive, not like I’m going anywhere.” He shrugged, stretching out his arm to put the cup of water back on the tray in front of him. Lilly reached to help him, but he gave her a pointed glance and she settled back.
“You can’t blame her for being worried. We all were.” Lilly meant to say something more personal than this hallmark card of a sentiment: she meant to say something like I was scared or I worried about you or I don’t know what would happen if you didn’t make it, but she didn’t. Around anyone else, Lilly was never concerned about saying the wrong thing. If she put her foot in her mouth, she’d deal with it. If she alienated people, so what? But she found herself editing her behaviour around Fletcher: from extremes to a socially acceptable stubbornness.
Fletcher didn’t say anything to that. Instead, his eyebrows raised a little imperceptibly. “You’re not here to visit.”
“I am,” Lilly said, surprising even herself. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Well,” said Fletcher, “I am.”
There was a moment’s silence. Fletcher’s hands were crossed over his stomach, and Lilly wanted to touch him to make sure he was telling the truth. And for other reasons. But she didn’t, and Fletcher stared at her and didn’t blink like he was starting to piece an emotionally stunted puzzle together.
This is, of course, totally unedited. But I figured I should post a couple excerpts for people who care, and also to show that I'm not cheating and randomly updating my word count.
A) at 21,470 words.
B) in the midst of Chapter 5 (that may be split into two chapters, but who knows at this point)
C) technically way ahead, but in terms of plot and the book itself, I'm at page 56 of my draft and have a looooot more to go before the book is actually done.
Here's the most recent excerpt, what I've written so far today:
Fletcher was awake, and when he heard her footsteps, he looked up. “Lilly,” he said. He didn’t look particularly surprised. “I was wondering when you’d show up again.”
“How are you feeling?” She felt awkward; here he was, in a pale blue hospital gown, and she was in her professional best. His dark hair was uncombed, and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. His jawline was rough with stubble. Fletcher looked a good five years older than he was in that hospital bed, and he moved as slowly as an arthritic. He grimaced when he reached for his water, and Lilly reached over to bridge that gap between cup and fingers.
“Been better,” said Fletcher. He took the cup, and said a little begrudgingly, “thanks.”
“No problem,” said Lilly. She hovered awkwardly around his bedside, an indelicate hummingbird waiting for a perch to present itself. She was uncomfortable around him because she didn’t know what to say. And Lilly had two modes of being: completely open, or completely closed. She didn’t like when middle ground presented itself. “Medication got you loopy?”
“They lowered the dosage,” he said. He hadn’t offered a place for her to sit, but there was a cushioned chair in the corner, and she dragged it over so it was as close to his bedside as she could get without intruding on his personal space. “You want to ask more questions, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Lilly. She settled down in the chair, rummaging around in her bag. She paused, mid-act, and said a little too quickly, “But I also wanted to see you. See how you were holding up.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
This was what she missed, what Marshall lacked. With Fletcher, everything was bluntly unsentimental. He didn’t discuss feelings, he didn’t go on hunches, he didn’t manipulate people. He didn’t delve into people’s brains and peel the lobes apart to see what made them tick and then rearrange them to serve his own purposes. Fletcher was simultaneously opaque and transparent, and was, if nothing else, a constant and solid presence in Lilly’s life.
“You got shot,” she said dryly. “And almost died.” She paused. “I almost stepped in your blood yesterday.” She didn’t know what made her say it, but it was an oddly private thing to do: blood was meant to stay inside the body. It was the spilling of something private, like personal dreams and fears and insecurities, and she felt she’d had no right to step there.
“Huh.” Fletcher didn’t seem to think much of it, but then again, even after five years of working together, Lilly still had trouble reading him, peering through the layers and layers of curtains that obscured his inner workings. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and felt somehow like she had said something she wasn’t supposed to. So she moved onto better subjects. “Any visitors?”
“People in the unit, mostly. My sister apparently has a flight arriving tomorrow morning - told her it was pointless. I’m still alive, not like I’m going anywhere.” He shrugged, stretching out his arm to put the cup of water back on the tray in front of him. Lilly reached to help him, but he gave her a pointed glance and she settled back.
“You can’t blame her for being worried. We all were.” Lilly meant to say something more personal than this hallmark card of a sentiment: she meant to say something like I was scared or I worried about you or I don’t know what would happen if you didn’t make it, but she didn’t. Around anyone else, Lilly was never concerned about saying the wrong thing. If she put her foot in her mouth, she’d deal with it. If she alienated people, so what? But she found herself editing her behaviour around Fletcher: from extremes to a socially acceptable stubbornness.
Fletcher didn’t say anything to that. Instead, his eyebrows raised a little imperceptibly. “You’re not here to visit.”
“I am,” Lilly said, surprising even herself. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Well,” said Fletcher, “I am.”
There was a moment’s silence. Fletcher’s hands were crossed over his stomach, and Lilly wanted to touch him to make sure he was telling the truth. And for other reasons. But she didn’t, and Fletcher stared at her and didn’t blink like he was starting to piece an emotionally stunted puzzle together.
This is, of course, totally unedited. But I figured I should post a couple excerpts for people who care, and also to show that I'm not cheating and randomly updating my word count.