This will, by necessity, be a short post. Not because it’s Christmas, funnily enough, but because I have done something incredibly stupid and inconvenient by managing to well and truly throw out my back. Heck if I know what I did, but all I’ve been able to do for two days is lay flat on my back, with no sign of improvement. Sitting or standing is just craptastic, to say the least, and my chances of getting into a physiotherapist at this time of year are zilch. Thank God for Voltaren and white wine! :-P
(ETA - and I just saw poor Kristen's post. We should both be locked up, for our own safety! LOL)
But I am happy to say there is one serious silver lining to my predicament. Beached on the floor, kids preoccupied with various electronic gaming devices, I’ve actually been able to start thinking and daydreaming - not about revisions, but about my next book. And by George, I think I’ve got it!
I woke from one of those half-sleeps with a scene in my head and a few lines of dialogue, and thank God I managed to haul myself up from the floor, wipe the drool from my chin, and bash it out on the computer. This is what I got:-
Victorian London, 1890s. A woman (Lucinda) is in a very masculine looking study, seated at a vast desk, spectacles perched on her nose as she rifles through paper work. A man bursts in. He’s agitated, has pushed past her butler, Norris, and without introduction or taking off his hat, he addresses her:
“Where is Mr Stone?”
She ignores him a moment, then carefully squares the papers she was persuing and sets them to one side.
His sideburns seem to bristle. He strides to the desk, plants his palms on its polished surface and looms over her.
“Where. Is. He.”
She removes her spectacles with exaggerated care and puffs a circle of fog on each lens. “He is on client business. Confidential client business.” Holding his glare, she slowly polishes her spectacles on her cuff.
His face darkens. He reaches into his coat. He thumps a thick, cream-coloured envelope upon the desk, then picks up the empty glass tumbler at her elbow.
“See that he gets this,” he growls, and slams the tumbler down upon the envelope.
He stalks from the room, unaware – or uncaring – that he has caused her tumbler to craze with a spiderweb of tiny cracks. A smile plays upon her lips as she settles her spectacles on her nose. “Oh yes, Mr Stone will read this,” she murmurs, taking her razor sharp dagger from the clever nook carved in the edge of her desk. “In fact, I will make sure he does so immediately.” The blade flashes as she runs through the envelope’s seal, and leaning back in her chair with a creak of leather, she begins to read.
Literally dreaming up a scene rarely happens with me, so I was a little freaked to have a character pop up, with a name of her own (and one for her butler! LOL.) I've been ruminating about it ever since, and I have what I think will be the beginnings of a Victorian mystery/suspense, and I'm excited!
So, the bad back is not all bad. And I am again reminded that when it comes to writing, it is completely necessary to back away from the computer in order to daydream and let the subconscious do its thing. I tend to try to park my butt and force the words, which is OK; but this time round, before I start to write, I really want to let my subconscious run wild and see where it leads.
Hopefully I won’t need another rotten back in order to do so!