It’s Friday night and poetically enough, it’s raining. The street below my window is quite, as is often the case when it rains. The gagle of homeless men who frequent my street have gone. Probably to the shelter a few blocks from here.
Refuge.
We could all use a little.
The kids went out. Josh and Haley to hang out with friends. Katie to Puerto Rico for Spring Break. So tonight, I’m getting a little peace. A little refuge.
I wrote a little earlier. So far I’ve got 310 pages of a novel that I’m still not sure of. Corinthian’s story is tough to nail. Sometimes, like the homeless men I pass on the street, it’s hard to see myself in her shoes. She’s dead, the story goes. And I’m writing the story in her voice, from the time she’s murder until she finds redemption. Refuge.
Corinthian could use some.
For the record, Come Sunday is my third novel. And for so many reasons, it has been harder to write than the others. There is so much pain, so much heartache. Corinthian, a 19 year old heroine addict, left a lot in her wake. She touched the world in ways she’s only know beginning to understand. Even I, as her guardian angel, don’t always understand. That’s what first drafts are for.
With any luck, I will finish in a few days. I will give Corinthian the refuge she’s looking for. And then maybe, I will find some for myself.
