There are times (like yesterday) when I ask myself what EVER gave me the idea that I can write anything anyone wants to read; times when I am tired of working, over and over, on the same group of words. At those times I want to get up and walk away. But something drives me to keep my behind glued to my chair. And in retaliation my brain messages that maybe I should put this story aside and work on something else. It’s just another ploy to impede my writing progress. Next trick, become so bored my eyelids get heavy and want to close. Then I read a part of the story:
Thick, brown hair tumbled around Seth Smith’s shoulders. He wasn’t old, but he’d lived hard for too long. Nervous energy kept him moving. He couldn’t sit still even for a few minutes. He appeared not to focus on anything, but Kate knew he was taking in everything around them. He thrust his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Then he pulled them back out and crossed his arms, his legs bearing his evenly distributed weight. Although he appeared to be looking at her, she knew he was looking past her.
“Not a good idea for us to talk here.” He shifted to one leg.
“You suggested it.” They stood on the dock watching coal barges move up and down the river. The spring festival had a good crowd. “Want to walk?”
He set off. Kate had to double-step to keep up with his stride.
“You trust Snead?” he asked.
The question startled her. She hadn’t thought ever to question the director. “Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”
Seth shrugged. “What about Ambrose Aisling?”
They walked on, eyes ahead, ears sharp. Either Seth was paranoid or there were eyes on them.
There were reasons for listing this who’s who. She’d been pondering the same.
“Talk to me, Seth.”
He stopped and looked dead-on at her. “I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“You know me, Seth. Have you ever known me to betray the team?”
He shook his head.
“Women are disappearing. Someone has to make it stop. That’s my job.”
“Honey, I have to check my car for bombs before I touch it. I have a post office box so mail can’t get to my house unless I take it there. My wife and I got a divorce so she and the kids are safe. I don’t even know where they are.”
What could she say? She’d told Snead it was time for her to get out of the business. She wanted children, and the clock on that was running out. Focus. This man was strong. Stacked conspiracies were his forte. She didn’t want to end up like him…
It may not be Robert Ludlum, but it has potential. How can I quit, walk away, and never dabble in words again. “Dabble?” That’s a problem. I don’t want to “dabble.” I want to delve into it, a serious endeavor.
All the years I was raising my children I kept telling myself I would get my turn when the children were grown.
It’s my turn.
Why would I want to waste it?