Charts and optimal dates and preferential temperatures. One line or two. As if she could summon whatever it is that makes up the human soul as easily as she could a cab on a busy New York avenue.
And this is what Spirit Lights the Way wrote:
Deirdre stared at the steady stream of urine, hands shaking as she readied to take the plunge.
The cascading stream divided, water parting to flow with seamless effort around the intruding stick. If only life flowed around all obstacles with such ease.
Deirdre withdrew the saturated stick, her fate held in trembling hands.
One line or two. One line or two. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.
One line or . . .
Cal slammed into the bathroom. Deirdre flinched and dropped the stick.
She watched it tumble away.
“Well . . . are you pregnant or not?”
To be continued . . . by JannaTWrites.
Of course! I was thinking maps, sailing and getting absolutely nowhere. One line or two. Optimal dates. Of course it’s about pregnancy! It’s as clear as day. Why didn’t I think of that?
The thing is: I always ask myself that. And I never do think of it.
I have wanted to write a book since I was about seven. I started plenty of them, between the ages of seven and twelve. All of them started off with a girl running away from home, and they were filled with details about what she takes with her and how she sneaks off in the dead of night, and then nothing.
It’s pathetic. I read books by Stephen King and I see how he gets his ideas. It’s obvious. All you have to do is think, “What if . . . ” What if an invisible dome appears over a town from one second to the next and one of the councilmen is a power-hungry psychopath? From then on the story writes itself.
It seems so simple. If your mind thinks in terms of invisible domes, of course. God, I wish I were Stephen King–I really do. Or JannaTWrites.
My imagination is limited to seeing everything that could go wrong when my young children played on playscapes. Where’s the story in that? “What if . . . ” What if my son slid off that giant tube backwards? He’d break his neck. What if my daughter’s hands slipped when the swing is at it’s highest point? She’d fall and break her neck.
Anyone who can write a killer novel based on that premise has my blessing. I’ll just read it and be jealous.