My writing day is about getting it done. However I fit that in, however I schedule around meals and family... I get it done and usually before the deadline. I'm a pantser who lets the characters take over. I merely suggest a direction I'd like to see, throw the coals on the fire and see what happens. I firmly subscribe to the idea, "When in doubt, burn down the house". It's sometimes the only way to check out what your characters are made of.
But I do write fairly clean. I write in chapters and revise/edit before going on to the next one. I also document by outline the completed chapter so I have a reference point for later revisions or things I want to change, dates, timelines, introduced characters... yada yada yada. Then when it's over I revise and edit from start to finish adding in the little tid bits of info that I thought of along the way and now need to be reworked into the story.
But just for a feel, I recently shared this dose of Brain Candy for the Frogpond... it's just something I wrote in the moment. I don't even know if it has somewhere to go yet or if this is all it's meant to be. Enjoy!
Philipa Klineman could pretend it didn’t hurt but of course to high hell it had. You didn’t get handed your dignity in front of the office staff and told you were a desperate seething cow everyday of your life. Never, if you were fortunate. Though Hans Gladstone, the office sex god, may know a thing or two about whining bovine she refused to believe he had summed up their entire relationship into a kind of barnyard existence.
Really? She thought, Not just a seething cow, but a desperate seething cow? How exactly did one graduate from the first level to the second? And when was “giving the milk for free” ever actually meant to encompass her perfect relationship with the perfect man who did perfect things to her imperfect body and—okay, slightly damaged—psyche? Was there a moment she should have got off that train she’d missed? And if the heavens above corrected her mixed metaphors now, so help her.
You would think, having broken up with the sod seven months ago, his words wouldn’t still carry a sting. But he’d hit to the heart of the matter, hadn’t he? Attacking her insecurities, laying her bare for the entire office to pick over and speculate. She hated that she still cared what people like him thought of her. She’d given her best years, months—fine, some of her best and they were weeks—to him and his insatiable cock.
Storming down the rain-swept streets, Philipa tromped through a grease-slicked puddle hiding a crack. Her ankle turned. Her heel broke and she was left, toe deep, in goo. “Shit,” she said and then “shit!” she repeated for more emphasis. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Philipa bellowed to the sidewalk at large.
She ignored the glare of the nearest geriatric and the curious smile by the be-suited man sporting a cigarette. Philipa was in her element and could not be distracted. Nothing, no one, not a fireball falling immediately in front of her would sway her from storming into said sex god’s apartment—yes, she still had the extra key—and dumping potting manure on his sheets. He wanted a cow? He’d get the best part of a cow, damn it. At least potting manure knew how to nurture.
Philipa hobbled into the flower shop and shoved money at the stringy blonde popping bubbles and cracking her gum. She barely paused to toss a grateful wave as she hiked the smallish bag onto her hip and made a bee line for his residence. Maybe she’d even pour a glass of milk and leave it by his answering machine so he was reminded of exactly what he’d said—you know, in case full on bed poo wasn’t enough to get the message across.
Out of nowhere, Philipa was shoved brutally forward. She would have lost her footing if a large, warm hand hadn’t circled her upper arm to keep her from falling. The bag was a loss, spilling its contents without concern for its owner’s slated revenge.
“Shit,” a deep baritone said beside her. “Sorry about that.”
Philipa looked forlornly at the quickly liquefying muck. “Well, it’s diarrhea, now.” She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what overtook her but in that moment she busted out laughing. She doubled over, pointing at the fragrant sludge. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I thought dumping a load of manure on his bed was a great idea. What the hell was I thinking?”
“You mean that’s shit?” he said. “Actual shit?”
Philipa looked up at the man who still held her arm, for the first time. Her laughter died.