So much has happened since the last anniversary post! Actually, having this occasion for reflection makes the recent past seem rather heavily weighted to the negative. Recall that career as a field service engineer I mentioned? An engineer I remain, however I no longer collect a paycheck in that capacity. The recession finally visited the nuclear industry, and my strained relationship with management strung the noose.
So, good news! I’m a starving artist!…
I am rearranging my goals for this manuscript, which will be reflected in the countdown soon. Since writing is now my primary occupation, I figure I should get a little more aggressive in my aspirations.
Cumulative Word Count Progress: 12,091! 25,570 in total. Amusingly, I came to the conclusion after weaving the two independent stories that make up the manuscript that there’s more work that needs to be done than originally anticipated. Therefore, I’m bumping my goal word count goal to a tentative 40,000.
Excerpt: Early diary entry from main character, Seneca, as a human.
I spend too much time these days thinking how very remote and practically imaginary our connection to other people is: how individual each experience of life truly is.
I asked myself, “How do you describe how it is to be you? What words would you use to describe how it feels to be in your skin? The state of being my person is:….”
I thought of the sound and the caress of each automatic breath: the rhythmic billowing and contracting under my chest and ribs. I feel the thrum of my heart against my ribs and the hot pulse of the tributary in my neck; the touch of my tongue to my teeth; the featherweight of bangs against my cheek; the texture of my fingerprints. I test the network of muscles which respond in my back and legs, restful but dependable, as I go through the motions of being this animal. I note the live, warm scent of my skin mingling with the floral notes of my shampoo. I observe the flutter veil of my eyelashes snapping the images of my world into singular moments, and the imagined industry in my brain weaving those images into movie memories.
But all these things are terrestrial. Merely tactile. If I had to describe the integral sense of being me, the word would be: alone.
And the only thing more sad, final, and horrifying, is thinking I might not be alone, but pregnant: host: mother. To something unwanted.
Yes, dear,dirty, distraught me. I think we are pregnant.