Weekly Writing Update

[deemoyza]

Exhausted.

I don't know if it's the weather, or the ridiculous schedule I've been working for nine months and still not adapted to, or something else entirely, but I have had an insane amount of trouble just staying awake, even at work, even while driving. I guess that little "staycation" didn't do as much good as I thought. Oh, well.

Anyway, writing. I got nothing accomplished toward the two exchange assignments looming on my calendar. I did, however, pick at an original fic in a fit of inspiration until my cynicism caught up to me.

The moon no longer shines over Valle Alarcón; it is not welcome here. But I don't think it minds. It's far too busy controlling the tides and inspiring poets to worry about a sliver of desert where few people live.

I don't miss it, either. I could rage against its absence by lighting every lamp in my home, like so many of the townsfolk do, but I've come to prefer the darkness. For what it takes of my sight, it repays in opening a world to my other senses. I hear animals creep around the house, and I can tell you which they are by the cadence of their footfalls. I can tell you which plants are in bloom by their scent alone, and I can tell you whether the rain in the distance will arrive before daybreak, if it arrives at all.

Most evenings, I do not light a single lamp. I sit inside my house, beside an open window, at home in a world I'd never truly known, and I laugh at the moon for its jealous arrogance.

I think Cecilia would do the same.

⁂
It was not yet noon on that April day, but the sun was already hot enough to crowd the arcade along Main Street with people seeking respite from its glare. Shops had their doors propped open, small electric fans whirring atop their front counters. In front of a restaurant, a group of women sat on small rugs and worked on beaded jewelry, vibrant pieces arrayed before them, for sale to interested passersby. At the hotel across the street, a woman in a gray dress swept the second-floor sleeping porches, while a line formed at the theater next door, beneath the sign that proudly proclaimed it "air-cooled."

I tugged at the collar of my shirt and adjusted the packages in my arms: a month's supply of coffee and salt and a bolt of muslin to cover the dates when they began to grow. I tried my best to weave through the crowd toward the dirt parking lot without incident, but several times found myself headed upstream, jostled between shoulders and murmurs of "excuse me, sir," with none of the offenders bothering to look at my face to prove themselves wrong. I could hardly blame them, however; they saw the faded work shirt and dungarees and let assumption fill in the blanks.

The constant activity on Main Street belied the town's actual size. Alarcón was not large, but the river and the railroad supplied an ever-changing cast of characters, most of whom remained downtown, crowding the streets, their voices loud and demanding, their eyes always on their next departure. The residents, by contrast, seemed intent on counteracting this flow, their acquaintances formed generations ago. They clung to these connections possessively, desperately, using them to anchor themselves there, lest they be caught up in the itinerant crowd, or swept away in the next dust storm or flood. The tight network they'd formed was quite endearing, really, provided one did not slip through the mesh.

By that time in my life, I was no longer either vagrant or townswoman, neither current nor anchor. I was simply Olga Mendivil, the third of four daughters and inheritor of my father's farm. After my sister Patricia married and moved away, taking our mother with her, I devoted myself to revitalizing the farm.

Loosely based on a historical snapshot of my hometown.

So, that's that for the week. Can you believe I still haven't gotten around to finishing my thank-you comments for exchange gifts, much less addressed any other comments I've received? You probably can. XD

Stats.

Total words written this week: 563
Total words written this year: 63,911
Total days written this week: 1
Total days written this year: 55