I'm determined to finish 25 pages by year's end, reaching my goal on Rashid's story. I need to do it for me. I feel like a wounded runner hobbling along to finish a race. No rewards, no recognition, nothing but a quiet feeling of satisfaction. Rashid's story deserves to be told. There's something about his character that grips me. He's Velcro. He will not, as much as I plead him to, let go. He grabs onto me with his sticky Velcro fingers and pleads, "Please, please, write my story."
Yesterday morning I employed an old, but true tactic for me. I came up with an idea and jotted it down. Just kept writing and writing. Did four pages in about 20 minutes. Not too bad. The scene? At the book's end. Wrote out of sequence. But I didn't want to lose the idea, so I wrote. It's not the best way to write. I'd love to be a writer who can write in sequence, but it doesn't always work that way.
So soon it's good-bye US, hello Haiti. I keep thinking of that old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times." Hopefully this week won't prove too interesting.