This week’s goal was 120 words a day, 875 words total. I didn’t finish the short story, unfortunately. And a couple of days this week I missed my goal because of falling asleep early or being drunk and staying up late. *ahem* … I doubled up on two days to make up for it.

January 29: 186
January 30: 0
January 31: 159
February 01: 252
February 02: 172
February 03: 0
February 04: 248
Total: 1017 words

Reading total: 83 pages

Weekly Writing Goal:

1017 / 875 words. 116% done!

Yearly Writing Goal:

3468 / 250000 words. 1% done!

Reading goal:

207 / 4500 pages. 5% done!

Follow up:

Week 5 Writings - again, no real major editing work done on these…

January 29:
The opening drum beat did not hold the tell-tale signs that the imminent guitar and keyboard filtered through the speakers. As the vocal spoke the verses with melodic rhythm in a language indiscernible by the listener, sadness filled her heart. The sung chorus held a urgent yearning that couldn’t be put into words - the tone of voice was enough to convey such feeling. The song shifted halfway through with a shimmer of a symbol, the singer now drawing out each word with such feeling and emotion that it swelled inside her heart and body. Tears threatened to spill over her eyes as he sang, urging, wanting, needing something that was out of reach, unattainable in this world. No matter how far the line was cast, it could not reach its goal and the item was lost into the endless depths. It was just a song, but one that held so much meaning that it became indescribable.

January 31:
She stared blankly at the newly set-up aquarium, mesmerized by the four streams of bubbles that floated up in different areas of the tank. Fish were not yet placed into the tank, but it still held an aura that drew the eyes. Lively fake plants swayed in the heavy current the filter created, and various false wood stumps gave an obstacle course for the future fish of which to swim in and out. The lighting had almost a blue hue to it, much unlike the yellow glow of the smaller tank nearby. She was anxious to put her fish into it, but knew that if she wanted to keep her fish alive, she would have to wait a few more days to allow the tank to cycle. How depressing would it be to place her year old beautiful fish into the new high-rise apartment only to have them day in a few days. No, she would wait, but impatiently.

February 01:
She rolled through the day like a heavy bowling ball that had been thrown very slowly. Feet were heavy against the ground, barely lifted with each step she took. Sleep weighed her down, and the grimace on her face was not happenstance. Waking up to an alarm was worse than not eating for a week. And on the topic of eating, the woman did not wake up early enough to have a proper breakfast. Walking to class on a cold day without breakfast and with only a few hours of sleep was not her idea of fun.
The day was foggy and damp. As she passed by the chimposium - a haven for chimpanzees - the sound of a yelping dog rang out. It took her a few moments to realize that it was not a dog, but one of the chimps inside. As she continued padding towards class, all she could think of was how she could sympathize with the chimp. An early morning on a dreary day was making her scream internally as well.
It was a rough start to the day. Her first class was art history, which was held in a dimly lit warm room. As the teacher talked about Indian art - which is rather intriguing - the woman’s eyes slowly lowered, as if weights were hanging off of her eye lashes. No matter how she shifted in her chair to try to keep herself awake, the springs of her eyelids were refusing to coil up to keep her eyes open.

February 02:
He looked at the story he had just written and printed out with disdain. A red pen laid lazy next to the paper, awaiting command to spill its blood across the body of text. But the author shunned it, the evil pen. He had read it over once and couldn’t even get past the first paragraph before he deemed it worthless. Why even bother taking the sword to it when there was not any good meat to butcher? Crap, all of it crap! He might as well give up his aspirations now after producing such a horrid piece as this! (Nevermind that this was truly the first story he had ever written.) How did those amazing authors compile such beautiful words into sentences garbed in fluid robes that made the eyes float across the page? There was no way he would ever be anything like those great minds. No, he was a dud. If his first draft of a first story was short of brilliance, well fuck it. Writing is stupid anyway.

February 04:
The girl sat meditatively listening to classic rock. She wondered what it would be like to listen to these amazing songs for the very first time; to be the skinny girl with straight, long hair that went to her waist, tight bell bottoms that flared out five times the width of her ankles, with the flat shoes and the plain white shirt. Instead of listenting to internet radio in the comfort of her air conditioned house, to be out in the hot summer sun, listening to the radio in the shade of a porch. The DJ announcing, “Here’s the newest from Led Zeppelin,” and on comes “Over the Hills and Far Away” for the very first time. It starts out with very soft guitar work and slowly builds until a second guitar joins in. The guitars still play softly for a few more seconds before Robert Plant’s voice - a godsend as far as girls of the time are concerned - joins in with the same soft tone. The guitar picks up, the drums join in, and the singer’s voice rises up in triumph. The song is nothing like she’s ever heard before, and before the song is over, she’s already determined that buying the record as soon as it comes out isn’t just a must, it’s a NEED, like breathing, drinking, and eating. Nothing would satisfy her need for music until it was placed into the record player, blaring out until her parents came in to turn it down.