Bethany (the hilarious Bethany) gave me a gentle tap, tagging me with the dreaded meme. I suspect she knows I'm not the meme type (too many rules), but Bethany is hardly one to bow to convention. Plus she's been one of my favorite Tweeter/Writer/Blogger/Fashion Icon/Mom to Preciousness/Sister/Ex-Pats for what seems like at least a couple of years now.
In internet time, that's like Dog Years.
So how could I say no?
This particular meme involves works in progress. It's specific to to writers, but anyone can get into the act as far as I'm concerned. You know the old saying, right?
The more of us in the water, the better the game of Marco Polo.
Here are those blasted rules I mentioned:
Go to page 77
of your current MS/WIP.
Go to line 7.
Copy down the
next 7 lines–sentences or paragraphs–and post them on your blog.
Okay, so here's mine. From my most recent and now fallow schnovel.
Her root beer eyes blazed with all this new information.
“Wow. Barack..?”
“Obama.”
“I don’t know what to say about any of this. It seems so fantastical. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” She furrowed her brow.
“I wish you knew my mum and dad. I’d love to know how they’re doing. And my sister Josie. That’s the hardest part. Not knowing what’s happened to them.”
I took a deep breath. Our light-hearted conversation had taken that wicked turn, back to our loved ones, the people left behind
“Do you wonder if we’re dead?”
“I did. I mean, when I first arrived in this time I often thought this was some sort of limbo. Or perhaps Purgatory? I never did go in much for church so I didn’t quite know how to explain it.” She released the mug and dropped her hands to her lap.
“I suppose the longer I’m here, the less it will freak me out.” I needed something to hold on to. A half smile fluttered across her face. “That is true. But you’ll be reminded of your other life and then you’ll worry and wonder. It can make you feel quite hopeless if you let it. It’s been like that for me for nearly three years. I suppose that’s one good thing about this bloody war. It keeps me busy.”
What have you in progress?
The rake.
ReplyDeleteThankyouthankyouI'llbehereallweek.
I'm not sure I believe you, Randal, but I'm going to tip my waitress anyway.
DeleteI've got about ten drafts of poly-ticks posts. But maybe I'll just go with more pics of trees and flowers...those seem to be more popular.
ReplyDelete;-)
I hear you, thunder. I start a political piece over at PoliTits and then think why bother?
DeleteI'm a fan of your pics so you won't hearing any complaining from me.
Ha! I looked up those lines in my recent novel. It's a conversation about cheese. Of course it is.
ReplyDeleteI hope you'll share, Summer. Let me know if you do. Or do it here if you want.
DeleteCheese. What's not to love?
Page 77 doesn't seem to have appeared yet but I could draw you a picture.
ReplyDeleteps: I liked your novel. Don't go calling it rude names.
I would love to see a picture drawn by you, susan.
DeleteThank you and yes m'am.
I'll only do this if you promise not to laugh. Plus, I'm blaming you.
ReplyDeleteGeoffrey, I promise I will not laugh. As for the blame, bring it. I can take it.
DeleteDone. Oy. First draft! First draft!
ReplyDeleteHere is said excerpt from my manuscript, Can't Buy Me Love:
ReplyDeleteShe took a deep breath and knocked on the neighbor’s door.
“Who is it? What do you want?” the woman called without opening the door.
“It’s Vanessa, your upstairs neighbor. I wanted to apologize.”
“Vanessa, is it?” The woman opened the door. With the cigarette gone, she looked much more approachable. “I’m Margery. We met onced when you and that skinny man were moving things in.”
“Right. Margery. Listen, I’m really sorry I woke you up last night. I wanted to make a peace offering.” Vanessa held out the cheese.
“That real cheddar from England?” Margery accepted the gift and looked at it closely. “My old man loves that stuff, but he can’t hardly find it at the Food Lion. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Again, I’m sorry about the noise. I’ll try to keep it down in future.”
“Way I see it, all that noise was due to you keeping it up,” Margery chuckled. “But don’t you worry none. My lips are sealed.”
Yours is so much more interesting than mine. I am working on an article for a medical journal about some homeopathic ideas for Autism. Thrilling, I know.
ReplyDeleteSame ole same ole but more of it
ReplyDeleteSchnovel. That's so wrong.
ReplyDelete(And I'm totally stealing the fluttering smile line.)
Um.... my novel is a mess, but here's an excerpt for you anyway...
ReplyDeleteJan 01 2012
Protected: Chapter One - Come Down To The Station House - On The Pole
Published by Meleah Rebeccah Hawthorne (Author) under Chapter One Edit This
When the cops arrived I was barely dressed and covered in my own blood. I could hear broken glass crackling underneath black, leather, boots, as they quickly ran across my living room. It took three policemen to stop my boyfriend from strangling me. I was shaking, crying, and gasping for air, with purple fingerprint bruises already beginning to take shape around my neck.
One officer wrapped me up in a blanket, sat me down in a chair in the living room, and stayed with me. The other two officers took my boyfriend into the back bedroom.
Even though they had separated us, I could still see him. Two cops had successfully restrained him. My boyfriend was face down, on his stomach, of the bedroom floor. Though handcuffed, with the knee of one police officer on his back, that didn’t stop him from thrashing around. There was blood dripping from his pointy nose after being tackled by the cops, which began pooling in the yellow carpet. And he kept on threatening, “I’m gunna fucking kill you! You’re such a fucking bitch! You’re gunna pay for this!”
The other police officer explained how my neighbor, who was also the landlord, had called to report hearing my screams for help, and she was the one that let them into the building. Before I could say a word, he immediately started asking questions, “Has anyone been drinking?” Are you okay? Has this ever happened before?”
But I wasn’t ready to answer. I just sat there. Stunned. I glanced around my tiny, one-bedroom, suburban apartment, only to see shattered dishes and large holes punched in the walls. The visible remains of domestic violence.
My manuscript is currently non-paginated. Is that a term? For reasons too whacko to explain in 10 words or less, let's just say I've chucked the order all together and am reassembling the pieces. And it's working!
ReplyDeleteSo I've got nothing to share here, I'm here and reading. And dear lord how much do I love the word "schnovel" !!!!!!