FWC 3: Portrait

Yesterday was a day for writing with the kids, until bedtime, then it was my turn. I’ve been writing a flashback scene for one of my three protagonists: it’s 1945 at Christmas (can’t call myself original!) and P is meeting her pen pal who, like her, was evacuated for the war. She’s stopped in her tracks though, by her future husband, ‘H’. I love this photograph, I think it’s moody and appealing and full of stories. So even though my ‘H’ is in a completely different time and place, I found this really helpful (of I do say so myself). I hope that my prompts over the Christmas holidays will help somebody else too.

I’m only 8 or 9 thousand words into this story, and I’m writing several different strands all at once, I’ve had a few weeks of turmoil in life so haven’t been writing regularly, but I hope that the Christmas break and my new job will give me more time to move the story on… (N.b. It is not a WW2 romance!)

I’m proud though, I’ve never got this far. I was chatting to my dad about his writing and realised he was around my age when he would tap away at the great big desk top computer in the study. I think there must be something about being in your thirties, pushing forty, realising that your kids are some way towards being formed as little people and wanting to pursue something a little bit outside of home and work. Enough people have written about doing this and not feeling guilty, so I won’t go there, but I hope my children know that in trying to be my best, I’m trying to do my best for them.

β€œB!” The shout had escaped too soon, as the tall figure waiting outside the church hall turned and she saw it was not R at all. 

β€œH. Charmed.” He smiled as he held out his hand to hers. P looked past him into the hall, but, not seeing R, and unwilling to appear rude to the stranger, she looked back to him and smiled. He was actually a few inches taller than R and had dark hair slicked to one side like Humphrey Bogart. He had unnaturally blue eyes that were so bright they appeared to glow through the smoke that rose from his nostrils and the corner of his slanted lips. He was leaning against one of the tall, arched windows of the church hall, the warm pulses of light behind him a contrast to his piercing eyes.

(pre-edit @rachael_scribbles)

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