So yesterday I forgot to post, which happens. I wrote yesterday — a whopping 2k in about an hour. Repeated the feat again today. I wrote a chapter of Seize the Day yesterday, which was wonderful. I didn’t really have this particular chapter on the outline — I realized as I was writing the previous chapter that what I had outlined and what my characters needed to do didn’t quite line up, so I figured I’d wing the entire chapter.

Guys, sometimes I forget that I’m really a Discovery Writer at heart. I am like Stephen King — to borrow his metaphor in On Writing (a memoir I suggest every writer should read), I get only a part of the fossil (the story idea). This idea or situation is what I sit down to write, and as I write, I discover the rest of it along the way. This causes some of my drafts to be rather chaotic and need a lot of cleaning — which is why I sat down and started another draft of Seize the Day. With some of the major changes I had made to the world the story takes place in, I have a lot I need to rework and rehash and rediscover.

Which is fine. I like it. It makes the words come easier. The characters do the talking. They tell me more things, define themselves better, which makes for a stronger piece of writing in the long run. Outlines are great; they really are. But I am not a writer that truly needs them. When cleaning up a draft? Sure. When writing the first one?

Please. That just kills my drive to write it. And the scene shown below? Totally unscripted. Not part of the outline at all. But 100%, absolutely necessary.

Jazz frowned, crossing his arms over his chest as Ryin stepped hesitantly into the hospital room. “What’re you doing here?”

“I came to take you home, man,” Ryin answered, placing his hands in his pockets. He kept his arms loose and open, his eyes only halfway meeting Jazz’s. “You’re getting discharged today, right?”

Jazz sniffed, tightening his arms over his chest as he pushed himself out of the hospital bed, wincing in pain. “Yeah, but I thought we agreed that Mitchel was getting me?” he said, a current of anger slipping into his tone. 

“We did, but –” Ryin sighed, shaking his head. “Look, I’m sorry. I know the Movement means a lot to you — and it means a lot to me, too, but –”

“It’s not worth risking your life over. I get it,” Jazz snapped, glaring at Ryin. He pulled the hospital gown off, and slipped a t-shirt over his head. 

“Jazz –”

Ryin.” Jazz jerked his pants up over his hips and hissed in pain. A hand moved to his side, holding where his bandages were for a second before he turned on his heel. “You don’t really care about equality for NBs — not if you’re willing to hide the fact you are one.”

“It’s not fucking like that!” Ryin growled, approaching his brother slowly. “I want for us to have equal rights, I really do –”

“They why leave the Movement? Why hide the fact that you are one, once you’re Emperor? Why are you going to leave us hanging like this?”

“I told you last night, I don’t want either one of us to get killed –”

“I’ve already been shot, Ryin!” Jazz cried, cutting Ryin off. He snatched his shoes off the floor, another pained gasp escaping him as he settled into the uncomfortable chair beside his hospital bed and tugged his shoes on one at a time. “I could have died — they told me how much blood I lost. How they almost lost me on the fucking table. And I was shot before anyone even realized who I was related to. The news still hasn’t mentioned that Uncle Frank’s my uncle, y’know? And I don’t think it’s gonna fucking come up now, so why hide the fact that you’re an NB?”

“Because — Because I –” Ryin faltered and turned away from Jazz, his face burning. “I don’t know.”

“A minute ago you were so adamant about keeping me and you safe — and now you don’t know?” Jazz asked, his brows bunching together. He sighed and shook his head, putting both hands on the arms of the chair as he moved to stand. “Make up your fucking mind, Ryin. When you joined the NBLM you knew you were putting your life at risk — how is remaining in it and supporting it as the Emperor any different?”

“I — I’m not like you, okay, man?” Ryin muttered, glaring at Jazz. He kept his hands in his pockets, feeling his fingers ball into fists. “I’m not fucking capable of standing in front of a crowd and shouting it to the world that my red hair’s not a fucking genetic accident — that I’m pale because my parents were pale and left shit up to fate when they conceived me naturally.”

“We’re no different than the rest of the fucking world, Ryin,” Jazz hissed, moving into Ryin’s personal space. He tilted his head back, his eyes narrowed at him. “That’s what we’re trying to do with the NBLM in the first place, and if you suddenly think you’re too fucking good for us because you’re gonna become Emperor, you need to fucking put your head back on straight.”

“Where the fuck did you come up with that idea?” Ryin hissed, pulling his balled fists out of his pockets. “Where the fuck did I say that I thought I was better than you, man? Than the Movement?”

“I don’t know, Ryin — maybe when you decided you didn’t want to let the public in on the fact that you’re a member and have been for the past five years?” Jazz shot back, picking up his jacket off from the back of the chair. He slung it over his shoulders and winced, putting a hand to his side again. “I gotta go. Mitchel’s waiting for me downstairs.”

Ryin blinked, the anger fading from his limbs as his hands unfurled. “Jazz, I’m –”

“Save it for Alexandra and the rest over at NBLM headquarters, Ryin,” Jazz spat, pushing past Ryin. “I’m sure they’ll need your apologies the most.”

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