Writing

Today the Blizzard forced me inside and I spent most of my moments writing on Chapter 2. Consequently, I actually finished 6 pages of difficult writing.

In this scene, set 1000 years ago in Ohio before the Europeans, the 18 year old central character meets an 18 year old young women from his Village who has been flirting with him. Neither of them have ever, what we would term, "dated" another person. This is part of their encounter, as I wrote it during my snow-covered day:

The spring flowed out of the side of a hill and immediately fell over rocks, which allowed one to cup ones's hands for a drink or to put one's face there and drink the water in as it bounced. From the rocks, the water flowed slightly down hill until it was caught in a pond, dug by our ancestors.

“I am thirsty,” she said, as she turned her back to me cupping her hands, catching water and drinking. Lone Bird was beautiful. Her legs were long and muscular without being thick, and her back was straight and nicely formed. When she turned around facing me, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and then brushed the water away off the front of her body with a laugh. Her black hair was in two braids which fell mainly over her back, but now one was over her front shoulder. Her waist cloth was simple and undecorated. She was very appealing.

I leaned into the rocks and caught the water with my mouth, making some slurping sounds; I probably should have cupped my hands as well. I turned around to face her, and as she had done, wiped my mouth and brushed the water off my chest, laughing.

We looked at each other and a force of some sort moved back and forth between us, causing an aching feeling inside me. Both of us took a step forward, putting us very close to each other. Lone Bird bent over at her waist and in the Ojib way, rubbed her nose on mine, back and forth, gently. She was so close, but we were not touching. Her head tilted back slightly and I slowly moved forward and touched her lips with mine, gently, in the manner of our Tribe. Her breath was hot, as was mine, and our breathing was as if we had been running. I pulled my face back to look at her eyes. She was smiling; I thought that there were tears welling in her eyes, as she started to laugh. I laughed with her also. It was not laughter at something amusing, it was laughter of joy, and we were both celebrating the moment without saying a word.

In the distance up the hill, I heard my Father’s unmistakable whistle.

“Lone Bird, that is my Father calling for me. I must go to him. Will you come along, with me?”

At first, she hesitated and then smiled and nodded yes. I took her hand and we began to run towards the Village center.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~~ Ernest Hemingway