First Day, 1,697 words, and Goddamn Horror Novels are Hard to Write...

...because they're serious and not much fun. This might be why I struggled so much on the first day. I gave up at about 1:15 with about 700 words, but felt inspired when I woke up this morning before the boys and wrote some more.
The essence of my story is a love triangle juxtaposed onto the horror genre, in a rather un-Twilight sort of way. Don't get me wrong, the Twilight series was nothing, if not chilling, but I am writing a different type of horror. A haunting, if you will- I think I have always been writing about haunting in one way or another, and am now literally writing about being haunted.
The members of the love triangle? Maggie St.James (the protagonist), Sean O'Connor (pictured here), and Tim Shanahan- not to be confused with Brendan Shanahan, whom I hate with a fervour normally reserved for a pile of jock straps. When directly confronted by Scott to explain this hatred, I found I couldn't remember why I hated him. It's just one of those things, I guess. In any case, Tim Shanahan is another version of Tim Riggins, NOT ANY sort of version of Brendan Shanahan. Are we clear? ARE WE CLEAR?? Crystal.
Anyway, here's an excerpt, it sucks, but what are you going to do? Jackie is outwriting me by a country mile. She just compared the Black Bloc to a plastic, reusable ice cube in a glass of expensive scotch. How do I compete with that? Hint: the answer is, I don't.
Here is the first hint we have of Sean:
So when did it begin? Hard to say... stories are rarely understood from Point A to Point B. It is only in the looking back that we make sense of the things that happen to us, create narratives out of the disparate bits and pieces of reality out of which our mundane lives are constructed. But there is safety in the mundane... safety, and beauty. Maggie would miss those things when they went out of her life- seemingly all at once, but we know better... it happened slowly, and insidiously, and if we were to select a beginning point, I think this one is best.
It was the lips she felt first, just lips, nothing else. Slowly applying pressure to her own, as she lay sleeping. Full, warm lips, and familiar. A kiss is as distinctive as a fingerprint, Maggie would stand by that. She thought a kiss could stand up in a court of law and testify... the lips know when the eyes are deceived. But Maggie’s eyes were closed, and she knew immediately. In the space between being asleep and being awake, nonsensical things seem plausible, and so it seemed perfectly natural to her to be lying in her bed, half asleep, being kissed in a soft, insistent way by Sean, as she had been kissed so very many times before.
She responded to the kiss before she even had time to think, sucking gently on his full lower lip, reaching her hand up to run her fingers gently through his short, wavy hair. But her fingers grasped nothing but air. She was so shocked by this incongruity, she leapt into full wakefulness and sat up. And found herself alone. And also not alone. Because she could still feel the slight moisture on her lips, and she could still smell the mixture of whiskey and cigarettes that Sean had on his breath. If she had not disturbed the covers in her upward jolt from sleep, would she have found a slight indent in the bed next to her? Perhaps she would have, but we’ll never know.

Am going to try to get some more writing done this night because I might not be able to write much tomorrow. Happy novelling everyone.