Alright guys, let me start off by apologizing.
I have been trying to force Daisy out of myself. Tearing it apart and trying to squeeze every drip out of it in attempt to get some motivation to write it. But, here's the thing. I'm not ready to write it yet. I'm not done creating and not able to start writing until that's done. I plan to keep a journal for the next few months so that I can actually begin to write journal entries like I need Addie to be able to do through her narrative of the story. So, what I am saying in fancy words, is that I have to take a break from writing it. I'm not sure when posts will start to show back, and I know that I haven't gathered a 'following' as of yet, but I just want to keep everyone who stumbles on here to know what's up.
Also, there will be a few changes to how this thing is going to run:
1. When I do start posting again I want everyone to be wary that these posts (pieces of the eventual book) will most likely not be in order.
2. They will vary in length, and they may have random POV's that do not necessary match the other majority of the posts. I just need you guys to bear with me, this is a place for me to experiment with how I want to tie the writing together and what works and what doesn't.
I had another bullet point but at the moment it's escaping me. Trying to be organized and stuff.. (haha)!
So, I'm taking a break from Daisy, but I do keep the intention to keep writing it. If you guys have any questions about anything, let me know. I might have an ongoing biography post for characters too. Will probably just keep adding to that, so keep an eyes out.
Thanks for reading and sticking around with my crazy jumps.
-Shelby
(c) Copyright Shelby Williams 2015
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Going Under 2.1
Her eyes were accompanied by the half bruise colored circles that clung to the bottom of her lashes like a ghost or shadow of once was. I knew she hadn't been sleeping, but the presence of the shadows seemed to confirm this squirming fear in the back of my throat. She wasn't getting any better. It was something I shouldn't have taken personally, I knew that, but some things were built into the secret parts of us and we really had no control at all. Most things that revolved around Addie I had no control over. She was a constant thought but never really distinguishable as coherent or conscious in my mind.
She looked frail, there was always an air about her of being sickly or unsure. But she had this fire to her, when staring into those violet irises it was like looking into the embers of someone that had not burned quickly. And that was just it, I guess. She was still burning. Still burning with the questions, burning with what had happened and this life she had been forced into.
Forced. The word stuck out in my mind like a chord, and I wasn't exactly sure as to why. I kept looking at her, and finally she noticed, pushing her pale hair out of her eyes to give me that almost-angry look of defiance.
"What are you looking at?" She asked, but her voice wasn't challenging. It was tired, a little worn out, and I laid one of my hands on the nape of her neck and squeezed a little. She continued to stare back at me, eyes searching and thin lips pressed together in observation.
"You." I answered, and I knew she hated that answer. What she really meant when she asked the question was 'why?'. Why are you looking at me like that? But who was I to tell her my observations? Who was I to outline the fact that she was slipping again and that I wanted to be strong for her but I could barely hold myself out of the slipping waves. That was just it. It wasn't my place at all, and it never would be. Her thin lips creased into one of her signature unsatisfied frowns, but today she was too exhausted to press the subject any further. Underneath my hand the tip of her spine seemed to be cutting into me, the skin felt so stretched thin over the bone. Was she starting to lose weight again?
The thoughts were getting sharper, and I exhaled, trying to keep the white hot emotion from licking at me. There was still so much I didn't know about her. So much I felt as though she was holding back, something always biting on the edge of our tongues but always withheld.
"You look tired," I finally said, brushing more of her hair out of her face. She simply shrugged her thin shoulders and offered a half-assed smile.
"I'm always tired. You should know that by now." And I did, but it still wasn't satisfying. The fear in the back of my throat seemed to melt into something else, something more on edge. A cliffhanging feeling, as if a cavern of dark water was waiting for me below.
She looked frail, there was always an air about her of being sickly or unsure. But she had this fire to her, when staring into those violet irises it was like looking into the embers of someone that had not burned quickly. And that was just it, I guess. She was still burning. Still burning with the questions, burning with what had happened and this life she had been forced into.
Forced. The word stuck out in my mind like a chord, and I wasn't exactly sure as to why. I kept looking at her, and finally she noticed, pushing her pale hair out of her eyes to give me that almost-angry look of defiance.
"What are you looking at?" She asked, but her voice wasn't challenging. It was tired, a little worn out, and I laid one of my hands on the nape of her neck and squeezed a little. She continued to stare back at me, eyes searching and thin lips pressed together in observation.
"You." I answered, and I knew she hated that answer. What she really meant when she asked the question was 'why?'. Why are you looking at me like that? But who was I to tell her my observations? Who was I to outline the fact that she was slipping again and that I wanted to be strong for her but I could barely hold myself out of the slipping waves. That was just it. It wasn't my place at all, and it never would be. Her thin lips creased into one of her signature unsatisfied frowns, but today she was too exhausted to press the subject any further. Underneath my hand the tip of her spine seemed to be cutting into me, the skin felt so stretched thin over the bone. Was she starting to lose weight again?
The thoughts were getting sharper, and I exhaled, trying to keep the white hot emotion from licking at me. There was still so much I didn't know about her. So much I felt as though she was holding back, something always biting on the edge of our tongues but always withheld.
"You look tired," I finally said, brushing more of her hair out of her face. She simply shrugged her thin shoulders and offered a half-assed smile.
"I'm always tired. You should know that by now." And I did, but it still wasn't satisfying. The fear in the back of my throat seemed to melt into something else, something more on edge. A cliffhanging feeling, as if a cavern of dark water was waiting for me below.
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