Margie, the Poetic Tragedy

I've made significant progress on "The Red Truck" today (I've decided to add the article to the title). I'm becoming deeply connected to Margie, my protagonist. If this were Stranger Than Fiction I'd be spinning quite the painful life for this woman. I feel sorry for her, but I can't help but destroy her. The feeling of omnipotence of writing can be a tough experience for the writer as well. This poor woman, she just doesn't get it.

I find that when I write it helps me to listen to music that corresponds to the mood of the scene. When she's angry I listen to foreboding metal. Creepy soundscapes help me shape the scary moments. At Margie's moment of romantic downfall The Used helped out with the song, "Poetic Tragedy." I get excited about what I'm writing. Hopefully I'm connecting more emotionally with the words than the music playing in the background.

I suggest you try the same. It's like adding a sound track to your work. It helps me. Maybe it will help you, unless you're the type that needs silence when you write.

Here's a sample:

The next week followed a similar pattern. I played the zombie at work. Cathy hardly spoke to me, and I definitely didn’t spark any conversations. Jay never came in. At home I hardly read anything more than my email. Food was uninspiring. The snow continued to fall meanderingly.
And the red truck remained.
I did nothing about it. I did my best to ignore its existence and began parking on the side of the building almost out of instinct. The truck, well, the truck haunted me. While I tried to forget about it, it didn’t forget about me. It was my nightmare to my dreams of Jay.
All I really did think about, though, was Jay. In a way, the thought of him possibly coming into the store is what got me out of bed each morning. I loved his perfectly manicured blond locks and his exquisite posture. I constantly daydreamed about him holding me tight, close enough that I could smell the source of his cologne. When the coffee woke me in the mornings, I imagined that it was he pouring my cup. My lax reading fueled this growing crush; in the past the books I read kept my mind busy during the day as I looked forward to going deeper into the mystery.
Sometimes, my daydreaming went further than morning coffee. My thoughts became physical, lustful. Hands on thighs. Lips on necks. Bodies on bodies. Like a scene from a romance novel, I wanted him, needed his touch more than ever.
A week and a day after my tantrum, my priorities changed.