Doubting Charles
Word count: 42651
Wrote this last night and as I'm writing it, I'm thinking, "I'm just putting my doubts about this novel into my character's mind." It's funny: Charlie has several moments where he has these "I can't go on, I must go on" moments that are really all my fault. This one was probably the most intense. Fortunately, it was followed by yet another revelation (on my part) about what's going to happen to him and so he made it through again. Way to go, Charlie!
I wonder about this trip to Normal. I don’t even know where I’m going or what I’ll do when I get there. It seemed like such a sure thing when I made the connection. “Go see Illinoir,” they said. So I go down there and see it and what will that do for me? That’s been the problem with this whole thing. It’s all happening in fits and starts. I’m not making any progress towards any goals. I figure out one thing and then six other things pop up and I’ll never unravel them all. I make one connection at the cost of another.
I give up on my papers, stuff them back into my bag, feel the gun. Desperation’s voice in the back of my head tells me just to put it in my mouth and pull the trigger. Rarely is that voice so dark and rarely does it sound so attractive. My hand closes around the grip inside the bag. I feel its weight and power. It’d be so much easier to stop this all right now, arrive in Normal as a corpse rather than a live human with all these questions and mysteries. Who needs them?
I sit like that, folded over in my seat, holding a gun hidden in my duffel, for several minutes and I’m not sure what brings me out of it; what causes me to lower the revolver back into the relative safety of my T-shirts. Perhaps it is my love of a mystery solved that makes me realize that I need to see this through to the end. Maybe it’s the way Kat is staring at me from across the aisle. Disgusted with myself, I withdraw my hand from the bag.
I am weak to be thinking like this. My exhaustion from the events of the last 36 hours along with the alcohol and the stress have all combined to break down all my defenses. I need sleep.
Wrote this last night and as I'm writing it, I'm thinking, "I'm just putting my doubts about this novel into my character's mind." It's funny: Charlie has several moments where he has these "I can't go on, I must go on" moments that are really all my fault. This one was probably the most intense. Fortunately, it was followed by yet another revelation (on my part) about what's going to happen to him and so he made it through again. Way to go, Charlie!
I wonder about this trip to Normal. I don’t even know where I’m going or what I’ll do when I get there. It seemed like such a sure thing when I made the connection. “Go see Illinoir,” they said. So I go down there and see it and what will that do for me? That’s been the problem with this whole thing. It’s all happening in fits and starts. I’m not making any progress towards any goals. I figure out one thing and then six other things pop up and I’ll never unravel them all. I make one connection at the cost of another.
I give up on my papers, stuff them back into my bag, feel the gun. Desperation’s voice in the back of my head tells me just to put it in my mouth and pull the trigger. Rarely is that voice so dark and rarely does it sound so attractive. My hand closes around the grip inside the bag. I feel its weight and power. It’d be so much easier to stop this all right now, arrive in Normal as a corpse rather than a live human with all these questions and mysteries. Who needs them?
I sit like that, folded over in my seat, holding a gun hidden in my duffel, for several minutes and I’m not sure what brings me out of it; what causes me to lower the revolver back into the relative safety of my T-shirts. Perhaps it is my love of a mystery solved that makes me realize that I need to see this through to the end. Maybe it’s the way Kat is staring at me from across the aisle. Disgusted with myself, I withdraw my hand from the bag.
I am weak to be thinking like this. My exhaustion from the events of the last 36 hours along with the alcohol and the stress have all combined to break down all my defenses. I need sleep.
posted by adam at 10:19 AM
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