Yesterday we did groceries. I got seriously down on myself for some reason afterward, so self-conscious that I decided not to keep writing. At the time, I had no idea why. After a few hours I felt better and went back to writing, got normally stuck and eventually went to sleep.
This morning, I got up early and did more writing on the same scene. Skimming through yesterday’s work, I realized I was about to hit a huge trigger for myself and decided to build it into the scene anyway, because that’s the kind of story it is.
I keep writing stuff in this book that feels like it’s not “allowed” or that I should focus so intensely on. I started writing down the rules that I’m following for the story so I’ll have a clear idea of why I made the choices I did later instead of panicking. One of the rules is that the main characters can avoid putting trust in each other, but when confronted with a choice of trust/no trust, they must trust each other.
So now I have a character who’s triggered but is being cared for by someone she just met, and it feels like–to *me*–that the characters should run away from each other and fuck up their relationship and in fact the whole plot because they’ve known each other for a *day*, but the characters themselves are like, “Fuck it, I’m going for it. I just have a good feeling.”
Yoga: pretty smooth! I tried to do some sit ups this morning, but hahahaha, no. I’m just going to keep fighting with them for a while and see what happens. I’m almost up to 30 seconds with planks now, but it’s inconsistent. But my tree pose is up to my knees now, even if I did fall a bunch, and the bends and warrior stances are going well, too. I need to do something that stretches out my shoulders better. After the planks I feel like I’m wearing padding for fake muscles around the area, and it’s not comfortable to walk that way.
Yesterday, I saw a truck driving around that seemed similar to the one the incipient-stalker dude was driving. Using Lou Berger’s advice, I imagined I was defending a younger version of myself. The driver–not the same guy, oops!–got an eyeful of Resting Bitch Face and like, looked away in a hurry.
This morning, another similar truck was out and about and passed me 4 or 5 times within half a mile. I think this was the real truck, because it parked at the house where I got eyeballed the other day. I didn’t look directly at the driver because I was so pissed the second and subsequent times it happened that I wanted to beat the shit out of him.
I did *not* get catcalled this morning and he didn’t slow down any of the times he passed me.
Fuck that guy. Leave my inner kid alone.