I'm writing this month, but you knew.
I'm of course, not as far as I'd like to be and not writing something nearly as fantastic as I'd hoped for.
It's also early, day 5, too early for the pain my body is feeling. Writing is physical for me I guess, and numb fingers come at the ends of novels, not the start. It's going to be a long month.
I'm taking my break for water and stretching and looking out at something other than my screen. I'm moving some loads of laundry around and remember there are kids to pick up and dinner to eat.
Here's the excerpt of the day:
He took his clothes and his work from their office. Seth wiped himself clean out of Philip’s life, leaving nothing, not a toothbrush, a book or a silk tie. He took his recipes out of their cookbook and his photos out of the albums and frames.
When Philip walked in the door that night, instantly he knew something was wrong. It felt empty and too quiet. It smelled crisp and echoed. The lights were dim as Philip rushed from room to room calling for Seth. It was dark and cold when he fell on the floor holding his phone, pushing redial until the battery was gone.
Remember, it's an excerpt of a draft. A draft so rough it will be painful to go back over later. A draft I don't reread as I write. Each day is simply going forward from where ever I might have left off the day before.