I have failed. Five days without posting and three without writing. Making time during the week is proving to be more difficult than I had anticipated. I am not going to beat myself up about it though, I've been doing that for years and after tallying up the results at exactly zero, I'm done with it. I'm a big fan of the quote, that may or may not have been Einstein's, "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results", yet I have been doing exactly that. Of course I've never considered myself "sane" so...
A continuation of the werewolf story:
Matt sat in the passenger seat of Spencer's ancient and much beloved hatchback as they cruised down the road. The music coming out of the speakers could be described as electronic IDM techno ambient experimental music, and Spence could spend hours alternately listening to and talking about it. Matt was always open to new things and thought it was pretty good. Not something he cold listen to exclusively, but there were several songs in his playlist.
After about twenty minutes they arrived at... a location. The area around this place could not be described as a good neighborhood. Nor could it be described as a decent neighborhood. It wasn't the worst neighborhood, because there weren't any burning cars on the side of the road, but the potential for such was heavy in the air.
Spence pulled into what was presumably the parking lot, an asphalt like area where the combined square footage of the pot holes was greater than the cracked, flat surface. There were several other vehicles parked between vaguely visible lines. Spencer parked his car next to one of them.
The building they had parked in front of hadn't been painted in at least a decade, and most of the paint had peeled off so it was impossible to tell what color it had been most recently. The wood under the green, yellow, and sky blue chips was gray from weather and age. There were several large windows where the other patrons could be seen. They seemed to be enjoying the food they were eating. There was a homemade banner hung loosely above the door that had Buena Comida written on it in black paint.
As if reading his mind Spence said, "Trust me, it's awesome."
Right then the wind shifted and the delicious smell of Mexican spices wafted over them. They walked to the door and Spence had to ram his shoulder into it to get it to open. The beautiful aromas poured over them and Matt's began watering and his stomach gave an audible growl.
The inside looked much better than the outside. It was small, with too many tables crammed together, but it was clean. The laminate floor sparkled, and the couple of rugs, while worn, were clean. The lights overhead were bright and the walls were painted in bright orange. Colorful decorations adorned the walls and the front of the counter. There was a lady standing behind the counter, a huge smile on her face, waiting patiently for them.
They ordered, Matt paid, and within a few minutes they were brought, what could only be described as a mountain of food.
Matt was in love after the first bite. He had never had food this good. It had to be ambrosia disguised as quesadillas.
Spence glanced at him, and between bites said "Told ya."
They ate until Matt thought he would burst and had enough left over for at least one more meal. He leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily.
Spence did likewise. "You are coming with me to the Barrel Burner tonight." he stated with a mischievous grin.
"I am?" Matt asked, and knew that he'd be going. His stomach sank because his funds were getting low, but Spence had been bugging him about it since he'd started going a couple years ago.
The Barrel Burner was a tiny festival that happened every April, and was held at a campsite about an hour away from them. The people that organized it were a bunch of creative nuts, in the good way. Spence had found them online, and become great friends with a lot of them. He insisted that Matt would like them too but Matt did not do well meeting new people. He always found it a bit terrifying, mostly because he never knew what to say or how to act.
"Yeah. You can sign up online when we get back. You don't have to pay until we get there.
You've still got that tent?"
"Probably? I think its in the back of my closet. You know I have work tomorrow?"
"Pfffft, call in."
"I can't just call in, we're always slammed on Saturdays."
"So? You're coming. You'll love it."
"Ugh. You are a terrible human being and will spend many years alone and sad."
"But not this weekend. Now lets go hit the liquor store."
Page Dividers by @odrau
Sounds like you are not listening to your characters. They should prompt you to write when they have something to say. Sometimes my muse says nothing for days and then a torrent of thoughts come tumbling forth. Don't beat yourself up about it. It doesn't help and sometimes it just stifles the creative process.
Thank you for the advise.