Despair and deportation
Due to some technical errors (I left my master file on the computer at work and had to write 2,000 words at home) I have managed to miscalculate my total word count. I thought I was on 23k as we head into the halfway day, leaving me with the daily 2k to write to clear the 25k at the halfway mark.
Sadly, I'm on 22,177 - and for some reason, the extra 800 words is making me despair. Not sure why it seems so insurmountable, but it is.
Meanwhile, I spent four hours writing the 2k yesterday which is much slower than usual, owing to some issues of the mechanics of deportation in an Arab city: would they be dishdashes or police that would come, and how much packing would the deportee be allowed to do?
Two small extracts from last night's ramblings:
Willard Kane’s offices were in the freezone area of the city, and Amber could barely stifle a sigh as she walked in to the chic reception area, which looked like it was replicated from offices in Manhattan. The reception was all cream leather, with accents of chrome and glass, and had the unmissable whiff of greenbacks.
Willard came through to meet them: Doug had been expecting a cigar-chomping Texan from the sound of his voice. Instead, he met a man in his mid-30s with a seriously sharp suit, and only the distinctive drawl to give away his origins. Doug liked him on sight and, by the way Amber was giggling, he guessed she had taken to Willard as well.
The man was a natural charmer, but there was no mistaking his iron will. Only the obvious twitch of a muscle in his jaw gave away his true feelings when telling them his story.
and, drum roll, the deliberately underplayed deportation scene (mainly because I was too tired to bluff):
Roused from a deep sleep – his first night in his own bed for the last five days – Doug answered his mobile phone. He could barely make out Amber's voice between the sobs. “They have found out about the story and are deporting me.”
Instantly alert, Doug asked her to explain what had happened as best she could. Amber had been woken in the hotel at one o’clock in the morning by the hotel general manager, who told her there were three men waiting for her in the lobby. She dressed quickly and went downstairs, to be greeted by three men in dishdashes, who showed their CID badges.
They did not waste time on explanations, flashing a court order in Arabic at her. They merely informed her that she was no longer welcome in the country and would be escorted to the airport to catch the first plane back to New York. She would not be allowed to pack her bags, and her clothes would be sent on after her. All she would be allowed to take now was her handbag – which they would search – and her laptop would be wiped along with any back-ups before being returned.