I sit quietly for a bit, considering my surroundings. It’s warm. Higher humidity is creeping in. Sunlight and shadows dapple leaves, branches, logs and rocks on every side. Quiet reigns.
I don’t think we’re where we’re supposed to be.
But this was where we planned to be.
I put the question to the writer.
He clears his throat. “Well….”
Not what I want to hear. “Well, what?”
“No.” I can’t read his expression. I believe he’s hiding something from me. He looks around. “No.”
“No, what?” For a writer, he’s a poor damn communicator.
“No, I agree with you. This isn’t where we’re supposed to be. It’s close but….”
“Don’t you dare say, no cigar.”
Wrong. “What do you mean, wrong?”
The writer’s face tightens with dismay and repressed anger. “It means I missed it. I took the wrong fucking angle and now we’re here, and this isn’t where we’re supposed to be, as you pointed out.”
“So what do we do?”
“What do we do?” His look pierces me with disheartening judgement about my intelligence. “We? Hah. What the fuck do you think we do? We back out of this.”
“Back out? But there’s a couple thousand words – “
“Yeah, I know. I wrote them.” The writer crosses his arms. “I fucking wrote them. Now I’ll tear them out. Don’t worry, we’re not far. It won’t take long. I know what I need to do.”
“I believe I heard those words at that last turn, and then we ended up here.”
“Jesus, way to destroy morale and momentum, dude. Ever think about being a motivational speaker for people considering suicide?”
Turning, he strides back the way we came. Sighing, I follow and glare at his back. It’s lighter and less oppressive back this way, an immediate improvement. Still, I’m irritated. He may be the writer, but it’s my energy being consumed, something that he often overlooks.
He’s spoken, though. Time to rip out a chapter and a few other pages and paragraphs. Then I – he – well, one of us will write like crazy, at least one more time.