LitB: Draft Chapter 1 + motivation

[I am not an erotic writer by trade, but somewhere in the tangle of sweet-sour memories from my own past relationships exists the girl named Janie. And following a desire to take love and sex above the level of the Harlequin romance, this story takes shape.]

Dec 17 at 3:12pm

Something changed.

This thought arrives between the time it takes my neck to cramp, as I lay back.

[Something changed. I feel that I can repeat the phrase a million times over, each time a revelation. Each time I examine what I have been doing with my life and, in finding it wanting, I return to the most basic instinct. I will write until the words block out the doubt.]

Dec 17 at 3:44pm

Something changed.

This thought arrives between the time it takes my neck to cramp, as I lay back across the worn floorboads, feet up against the glass windowpane, my favorite yellow sneakers streaking the glass.

[I have always wanted to break the rules as such. To lay unmoving, to put up my feet, to be unconcerned of what others think. And with this troubled character I start to break down the form of my writting; Inserting spaces, slashes, dashes, symbols, and gramatical breaks.

Here rests my unchained mind.]

Dec 17 at 3:59pm

Something changed.

This thought arrives between the time it takes my neck to cramp–as I lay back across the worn floorboads, feet up against the glass windowpane, my favorite yellow sneakers streaking the glass–and the time it takes the automated fluorescent bar over the stove to flicker on over in the next room.

The floor shakes as a flying car zooms by. I wonder if they saw me, face up. My burgandy tank top bunched up and slipped over the right cup of my purple bra. It’s flower patters all underneath. Didn’t usually show like that, though I could admire it now. [I like to admire my undergarments at times, especially bras. They can be super fancy pieces of clothes.]

Would he have cared?

Did I?

There had been lights and nights before. I still felt the metal doorpull on that paint-chipped beauty of an antique bar. Not like scrubbed clean metal-hard joints. Matched my pink polish. [I am reminded of this cool bar where they only served alchohol and the bar took up the entire length of the wall. The place had these rounded metal doors that reminded of a jukebox machine. Very cozy.]

Inside of warm, multylayer stage lights illuminating the space. Heavy wood counter bar like a ship rail. Red rounded stools you hold onto by a single standing bar.

The boy at the end of the counter always looks sad until you walk up to him and smile.

Talk about those dumb V-reality games that steal precious time. You yourslef have an old fashioned wrist phone with projector screen, you tell him. He listened with intent.

He has a cyber implant at his temple that looks like two lines. Not a usual tattoo shape. He touches the patch and swipes his fingers down to decline any calls, only holding his temple for psychic messaging for the briefest moments.

I talk on about food prices. He finally mumbles about his sister making his food; askes for some water. I take a vial from my pocket and hand it over.

He smiles reluctant.

Pure swirling emotion. That’s how he takes it.

I get up and leave.

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