Out of sorts since Tuesday. The writing has been fine--everything else, not so fine. I'm going to copy a meme that I have seen in other people's blogs and use it as a writing prompt--Here goes.
Page 124 of the nearest book and 3 sentences starting with the fifth full sentence on the page.
Joyce Carol Oates After the Wreck, I Picked Myself up, Spread My Wings and Flew Away
First interesting tidbit--the first sentence is amazingly long.
And I thought, Wait! Your helmet! You almost killed yourself once.
Small, perhaps disappointing, sentences after that first one. But you get what you get etc.
Heather responds almost instantly:
I never have. Almost killed myself that is. But probably that's what mother thought I had done when she looked at my wrists. I don't blame her, really, they are darn ugly. That is why I wear the long sleeves all the time. That, and because I am embarrassed. I don't want people to know that is how I cope. It doesn't seem so healthy to me, or seem to be that sustainable really. But I always feel that I have no self-control. The urges. Oh, when I start thinking about it I can't stop. And then the shame starts soon after and it leads right back to itself. I am on a merry-go-round that spins. I climb on to the back of that horse and I always know exactly where I am going and effectively it's nowhere, fast. I guess I have nothing more to say about it. I guess just I wish my mother still didn't know. It only makes me feel worse and she's bound to think it is more serious than it is. All I want is relief and here I am back on that same pony, riding up and down around in my circle.
Passage exercises always seem to work.