Chapter 3- beginning snippet
On the days leading up to this book club meeting I was now invited to, I felt a strange tinge in my chest, deep in between my ribs like it was begging to be ripped out. It felt sharp, yet felt like it had been there for a while but was just now moving to the surface. Trying to move along with my day and finish my toast was not possible.
I dropped the runny egg filled toast onto the plate and sighed. Another meal wasted. I hate to admit that this was becoming a reoccurring thing, but my lack of water intake and my current mental state made it hard for me to succumb to my humanly, no, animalistic desires to eat.
I had spent almost 15 minutes making the eggs just perfectly runny, the toast brown but not burnt, making sure the burrata was spread evenly, placing and salting giant slices of heirloom tomatoes, and making the accouterments as pretty as I could. Basil, salt and pepper, and a few dashes of balsamic glaze.
Every meal, no matter how small, had to look perfect. I would spend extra time plating things in a way that would only be appreciated by a fellow artist, and those who pretend to be one. It felt like walking into an art museum, a sacred act, one that felt close to attending church. Though when I think about it hard enough, I suppose the combination of art and beauty is my religion. A reliable, ever-present, omniscient being that wafts through the halls like a loving god, one that tastes like butterscotch and whiskey, things of grownups.
The times I would attend church, and in this case I mean any various art museums, I would feel the urge to kneel. To pay my respects, to ask for forgiveness from this personification and oversimplification of art into one being. As if I am living for art, to worship it and to create it, my fingertips a guide to my creative blooming bud of a brain and into the minds of others through words and imagery.
I wasn’t brought to many art museums growing up, as a lot of the people around me thought it was too posh for them, as if art was some institution riddled in elitism and classism. They weren’t wrong, however my perception of art is a form of acceptance, unification, empathy, and understanding. The window of humanity, the eye of humanity, the way we perceive the world and the way it perceives us. To me it was everything. The reason for existence, and I was the minority in this thought, as I could not find a single person who understood me. I was just a kid that wanted to go to church, that’s all.
I think about even now walking through those hallowed halls and wondering why I had not completely thrown a fit, a tantrum even, to get my way about this. To scream at the top of my lungs until my mother finally listened. Then we’d both realize my desires, my innate reasoning for the way I was, for the way I was different from others. They preferred math and science, and I preferred English. No one preferred English.
I felt like the Goldfinch, forever immortalized in a painting yet always wanting to fly away to some treetop lovescape where I could be alone with my thoughts and rarely leave it, only once in a while to peck and nibble at the ground for worms. Am I too chained to my perch like the Goldfinch or did I place the lock around my ankle and call it home? I, like most people, would hope for the former then at least then I am not the maker of my own doing.
My stomach began to settle and my eyes focused onto the toast once again. I needed food and I spent time on it, perfecting it. Was my perfection not good enough for even myself? Most definitely, as that seemed to be a common theme within myself.
As I have this deep debate with myself, I notice a pair of wings to my right. A little bluebird. Its small head twists to the side, almost like a dog that’s questioning his owner. If only the window had been open, I would have made a new friend, but sadly, with the slightest bit of noise it was gone.
I finished my breakfast, while deep in thought and pummeled through the words of Donna Tart and her version of said Goldfinch. Strong coffee to wash down the rest of the toast and as I headed for the front door, I grabbed an orange along with my tote bag that acted as a purse, not forgetting to add in my reusable grocery bags for the trip I aimed to make later in the evening after work.
Update on the writing process:
I am 14k words in and plan on trying to finish the manuscript by October 1. Goal words is 85k, so I will have to hustle for the next 2 months. I’m using Reedsy which allows me to have goals set right in the writing program, which is amazingly useful.
I’ve gotten past the inciting event now, so I am feeling very motivated by the story. Chapter 1 and 2 need to be rewritten, as they are from earlier this year when I hadn’t mapped out the entire plot yet.
I’m excited to get this project done and start working on edits and the process of getting it traditionally published.
Wish me luck and let me know what you think about this snippet in the comments!
Love forever,
MEL
Art of the week:
my writing playlist for this novel
Please listen to the songs by serpentwithfeet, they are so good!
Substacks:
As always my favorite, Butcher Baby by Elijah Atlas
BEFORE I DISINTEGRATE by I.CRAMÉE
chamomile to soothe your mind by IRIS
Games: I’ve started playing Bloodborne!
Shows: The Serpent Queen, AHS
dear July please be kind.
“To scream at the top of my lungs until my mother finally listened. Then we’d both realize my desires, my innate reasoning for the way I was, for the way I was different from others. They preferred math and science, and I preferred English. No one preferred English.”
Mel! I love the voice of this character. I’m excited to learn more about this novel! Congrats on hitting 14k, that’s super impressive. 🫶🏻