I'm a big procrastinator, as I'm sure most writers are, and I prefer to work on more than one project at a time to ensure I don't get bored or distracted, and I think a big reason why I have been putting off writing anything remotely related to my novel Missing Since Tuesday is simply because I don't really want to finish it. Sure, I've got A LOT to write yet, but the whole story is in my head and I'm having so much fun researching it and putting it together that I just don't want the journey to end. But I do want to get it published in the end, so that's really no excuse, and I guess that just means I'll have to write another book after this one.
I also struggle to write at home. I have a big desk set up in my brother's old room and all the space I need, but I just can't make myself sit down and do it because there are so many other things I could be doing.
So I came up with a plan... if I can't write at home, where can I write? The library of course! And, just my luck, I found out that my local library is open until 8.30pm at night, so after work yesterday, I went to the library, set up my computer and just wrote! I know it's a cliche, but it works! And hey, it's not like I was sitting in a dark corner of a trendy city cafe downing cup after cup of coffee while writing my novel... or screenplay...
So, I suppose now I have to show you some of the results of my hard work... This is how Missing Since Tuesday will begin, this is the prologue. Let me know what you think :)
A young woman sits on the windowsill of her brother’s room, the late twilight sun catching the curly red tendrils of her hair that moves with her swivelling head as her eyes scan the room for a clue, any clue that can prove her wrong. Something that can tell her that her brother was not where she thought he was; that the tiny world he had created for himself out of tattered old books and piles of scribbled notes had not led to the destruction of his soul; something that can reassure her what she believes about love is true – that it is not a toxic, septic mix of torturous situations and life-changing decisions into which you fall head first down a cracked and broken road full of potholes and despair, but rather something that completes your soul and brings it back to life leaving you with no need to ever feel pain again.
But nothing catches her eye and her brother does not walk into the room with a smile that reaches his eyes and beams across the room towards her slumped and defeated form. He does not cross the room to her with arms wide open to take her in a big brotherly hug and tell her he is fine, and she has nothing to worry about.
For months now his soul has existed only in the crinkled paper mess sprawled across the room and pinned on the walls, and, according to grandpa’s book that she would have dismissed had she not been searching so desperately, his body exists somewhere in the midst of World War II chasing a love they all thought was gone forever.
*Copyright Sarah Hardie 2012