Tonight I finished "Chapter 39: The Angels of Sunset Avenue." It's a pretty good chapter, with lots of dialogue interspersed with action. The ending is intense. I only have 67 pages remaining, I think--I'm too lazy to check right now--and I am getting excited about completing this rough draft. Here is an excerpt from page 726, a conversation about hope between "The Man" and Samantha (an 8-year-old girl).
The man paced back and forth between the sinks and the stalls. “It’s hopeless,” he muttered.
Samantha stood beside the sinks, watching him pass. “It’s not hopeless.”
“Yes, it is,” the man said.
“Why do you think it’s hopeless?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Hope is a good thing.”
“No,” he said, turning and facing her. If she wanted to talk about it, then, damn, why not? “Hope is just escapism. Hope is trying to escape the reality of the moment by burying your head into the metaphorical sands of the future. Sands that hold no promise.”
“Maybe,” she confessed. “But it keeps us alive.”
“Alive?” the man countered. “It kills us. It drains us. A friend of mine said that hope is like barbed wire: the tighter you hold on, the more it hurts us. The more it makes us bleed.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But we still hold onto it.”
“Some of us do,” he said. “I don’t.”
“Yes you do. Even if you deny it.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“You’re still alive. Without hope, you would have killed yourself. Suicide is the logical conclusion to hopelessness.” After a moment she asked, “What do you hope for?”
The man was quiet.
He wasn’t even sure if he knew the answer.
* * *
The man paced back and forth between the sinks and the stalls. “It’s hopeless,” he muttered.
Samantha stood beside the sinks, watching him pass. “It’s not hopeless.”
“Yes, it is,” the man said.
“Why do you think it’s hopeless?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Hope is a good thing.”
“No,” he said, turning and facing her. If she wanted to talk about it, then, damn, why not? “Hope is just escapism. Hope is trying to escape the reality of the moment by burying your head into the metaphorical sands of the future. Sands that hold no promise.”
“Maybe,” she confessed. “But it keeps us alive.”
“Alive?” the man countered. “It kills us. It drains us. A friend of mine said that hope is like barbed wire: the tighter you hold on, the more it hurts us. The more it makes us bleed.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But we still hold onto it.”
“Some of us do,” he said. “I don’t.”
“Yes you do. Even if you deny it.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“You’re still alive. Without hope, you would have killed yourself. Suicide is the logical conclusion to hopelessness.” After a moment she asked, “What do you hope for?”
The man was quiet.
He wasn’t even sure if he knew the answer.
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