Not a huge word count day. I wanted to get more done, but I had to wrap up some freelance work, and the new development in the story requires me to shift a gear or two and mentally regroup.
The story took an unexpected turn today. I just never know what’s going to come out of these characters’ mouths.
This is the first day where I felt like the book is coming together. The cinematography in my head has gotten much better, and the characters are talking without me telling them what to say.
The words are coming. I just have no idea if they’re worth a crap at this point. We shall see.
I woke up this morning and walked out on the deck of the fire tower. You can’t believe how happy I was to see three piles of body parts in a row on the ground below. They have found me. I’m sure of it. There will be more, and I can’t wait.
My pile has asked them for help. It wants my hands. And it doesn’t know how to get them. Its hands must be so useless that it can’t even use them to remove mine. It needs the help of every Gore to take my hands.
This makes me so sad because I would gladly give my pile my hands. I can get by without them. What do I really need them for anyway? Stevie Dayton created me. He made me so I can’t die. Even without hands to fight or feed myself, I can’t die. My hands are of no use to me if you think about it.
I have to find a way to tell the Gore. There’s no need to gather and ambush me. They can gather. I want them to come, but I won’t refuse them my hands. I won’t struggle. They must know this. I have to let them know.
I searched Floyd’s diary to see if he ever talked to them and I found this.
Not all the Gore speak. It’s only the ones with the human heads that can talk. And, if the head is an infant or toddler, it speaks like a child, with the mind of a child. None of them really say anything that’s relevant to the situation. It’s as if they are repeating memories in their dead brains. As far as I know, there is only one Gore in the group that can hear anything other than other Gore. It has a man’s head: an older man, distinguished with streaks of gray in its hair, a chiseled jaw, perfect teeth. I call him Mr. President because he appears to be the leader. Mr. President likes me. He smiles at me and assures me that I have beautiful strong hands. They would be such a lovely addition to the Gore if I gave them willingly. Happy hands come from volunteers, he said. He’s been so wonderfully nice. I am happy to volunteer my hands. He’s told the others and now we wait. Gore law says the hands go to the Gore with the greatest need. He will decide which Gore that is. They are gathering so he can decide.
I must find this Mr. President and let him know that my hands are happy hands. And I will plead for my pile to receive them. It wants my hands so badly it must be the one. It has to be the one.
I think I’ll watch football now (helps if you read that with Forest Gump’s voice).
I’m pleased with my Saturday effort. There’s football galore on, and I managed to let it only be a minor distraction. This is the first day that I felt like I got inside the characters’ heads. The more I write the deeper that connection will get. I know what you’re saying. “Couldn’t he type just one more word to make it an even 5500?” What can I say? I stop when the well runs dry.
I tried to convince myself that I could skip writing on Book Six today because I had to write and record Lou’s Diary, but I decided that’s a terrible excuse. I just got out 500 words, but I like where it’s headed. In fact, I’m thinking of a title change. I’ll keep you posted.