That day

Today's 100 words:

He came home from school that day to find the house strung with laundry, every surface covered--the backs of chairs, the dresser tops, the counters. Even the pictures on the walls had been removed so that the nails that had been keeping them in place--keeping them from succumbing to gravity--could accommodate hangers topped with dresses, shirts, pants, curtains...everything that could be held by those bent and twisted wires. He watched, openmouthed, as his grandma stood at the ironing board, her right hand moving back and forth across an old housedress, an overflowing basket waiting beside her.

Stalker

Today's 100 words:

He'd been stalking her Facebook page for more than a year, checking every day to see what she was doing and who her friends were. Each time he breathed a sigh of relief to find that she didn't appear to be dating anyone. Even though they hadn't been together for years--even though he was now married--he knew that seeing her gush about another man would crush him.

He was right. Last week he saw those words, felt her excitement through the lines. His heart splintered as he remembered what they'd had and what might have been.

Liar

This morning's 100 words, this time a vignette:

 

She knew it would only be a matter of time before the lies caught up with her--before everyone began to see past her innocent facade and uncover the real Sarah, that vindictive, selfish woman who'd lived her life trying to attain an ideal: the ideal daughter, wife, mother, friend. But she couldn't be any of those things; she wasn't good enough. She wasn't perfect. And when she made yet another mistake and saw the anger in his eyes, fear set in. He would no longer love her if he knew the truth. And so she lied. Again.

Guilt

Today's 100-word fiction:

Natalie had heard people say that life should be lived with no regrets: no looks back over the shoulder at the other road one could have taken, no I-wish-I-would-haves, no do-overs. But Natalie couldn't live her life that way. She did look back, ashamed of a decision she had made years ago, regretful that she had turned against her faith and consciously traveled the wrong path. And even though that one decision led her to the beautiful family she would never regret, her actions shamed her. Her heart was always heavy.

Wherein I complain a bit, then make a plan

I write every day. In fact, I've done more writing thus far this year than I did all of last year and many of the years before. My problem? I don't feel like I'm getting much done.

Early morning is probably my best time of day to write. I love how quiet the house is after my husband leaves for work and my kids are still asleep. (I'm blessed with two late sleepers. They normally don't get up until 10 or 10:30.) I use my mornings for journaling and 100-word pieces of fiction. I consider these writings my daily warm-up. I love them because they help me to empty my mind of everything that is not my current WIP while still giving attention to those pesky plot bunnies that crowd my mind and scream for attention. Later in the afternoon, during my daughter's nap, I write some short pieces for another site and try to work on my daily blog posts. However, my concern is that every day I feel as though I'm cheating my novel-length project, which I usually get to late at night, after the kids are in bed, the house is relatively quiet once again--and I'm exhausted.

I know that no writing is wasted, but there are days when I ask myself why I bother with the early morning pieces and the other little bits of writing I do. My novel is my big project, yet I don't give it the attention it needs. There are days when I find its word count daunting, and some nights when I sit down to work on it, I feel like it's an impossible task. However, I want to write it; I love the idea, and the story is important to me. Something has to give, somewhere amid all the things I have to do and want to do during the day.

I need a plan.

I think that getting up just a few minutes earlier--even just fifteen minutes--will give me more time to work on my big project in the morning while still taking care of the small ones. Doing so will mean getting to bed earlier than my usual 1 a.m., however, and that may be a bigger problem. But more importantly, I think I really need to start treating my novel not as a novel but as a series of short pieces. Writing short seems to be my forte; I think I'm less intimidated by the smaller writings; the larger ones often loom in my mind like huge obstacles that seem too difficult to overcome.

It's time for me to change my thinking and my way of seeing my work. Today.