As discussed in my previous post, I have been writing–randomly and erratically–but writing all the same! Current word count for actual first draft of novel: 23, 199.
We live baby, yeah!
Now that I have my plot outlined, I’m currently working on developing the back-story of my protagonist. Here is an excerpt (that admittedly may stray into the semi-autobiographical at points #sorrynotsorry):
No. She absolutely could not relate.
It was repugnant and betrayed a marked deficiency in empathy and intelligence. How could one derive pleasure from the fear, the torture, the slaughter? Few and far were the real men (and women, undoubtedly) who hunted out of necessity, living off a land they respected to its very core. No, these were disgusting, sniveling boys playing wilderness. Not a care for the cubs left to starve after their mother had been run through by a poorly aimed arrow, job amateurishly and cruelly finished by a tranq gun and knife. Nor for the legendary wolf who led his pack successfully through vast and dangerous terrain, against all odds and to the amazement of the scientists who tracked him from afar for seven years. Did the pelt of that magnificent and noble creature, ripped form the source of its power, give them a good icebreaker at football gatherings? Get them laid by girls with daddy issues?
She would never, ever entertain the possibility of spending any time with a man who hunted for sport. In truth, she had a first date questionnaire– not on paper, but burned into her consciousness all the same–that she’d casually reel out on first dates to avoid wasting the time of either party involved:
Important political stances- death penalty? abortion? same-sex marriage? (One never knows when a new regime may come gunning for a hard-won liberty.)
Last book and/or article you read? (She gave points for honesty here. Not every great mind or good person was a reader, but this was telling.)
Do you hunt? (When she arrived at this point in the date and the casual interrogation, she would attempt to keep the fire out of her voice, the rage from her face, lest she lead one to provide merely the response one thought she wanted to hear.
After these, she would know if a second encounter was in the realm of possibility. There was enough hate, ugliness, and violence in the world without courting it and inviting it to her doorstep.
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