I have spent my morning rereading the novel I wrote for the Three Day Novel competition. It’s not as painful as I thought it would be. Here’s a bit I like:
Across town the light from her window would be shining on the mountain. They had unpacked her belongings together. She had all sorts of things she had found on the cliffs, little objects, smooth polished fragments of glass and shells. She chose her favourite ones and they put them by her bed. Harry knew she had Mickey Mouse pyjamas and a red toothbrush. She used Nivea face cream.
It was strange, how it had happened. He thought he understood why people call it falling in love. That hysterical lurch he felt in his stomach, that was just like the feeling you get when you’re falling. The flailing attempts to right himself, to stand on his two feet, the desperate attempts to clutch at a rock, a hand. And there had been no warning, no opportunity to try and work out a strategy, perhaps rig up a flying machine. If she was falling too, maybe they would both reach out their arms and cling together, like two parachutists, and then they would fall together.
He’d never been in love before. His parents were happy, but. But everything else. When people really fell in love, he thought, they just disappeared. Like two halves of an oyster, or the petals of a flower, they closed up, and something they shared vanished, like a pearl or a bee only they could see, that grew in secret inside them. Afterwards they would walk and talk just like other people, but they wouldn’t really be there. They fell inside an opaque liquid: love, syrupy and viscous, that protected them like amniotic fluid.
He felt see-through, looking at himself in the mirror. He passed his hand in front of his eyes.
And how did these things end? Maybe, if it all worked out, the two people who were falling together would pass through, somewhere, into another world, like falling through the ocean. To the kingdom of love. Then they would live, submerged, forever.