Have a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?
Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?
Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!
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One more week of Nanowrimo to go. If my writing hand and eyesight hold up, I think I’ll finish my 50,000 on time. It may not be a complete story, but the bare bones will be there.
And also a couple of Rosebuds—named after the Big Oops in Citizen Kane*— which is what you get when you’re too busy getting words down to pay attention to the continuity fairy, who has been trying to tell you that the great scene you just wrote can’t exist in the same story as the great scene you wrote two days ago, unless two of your characters are mutants and another has a Bag of All Holding with a (plot) hole in the bottom through which all those clues and handguns are apparently falling.
But I’m pretty sure these next eight are okay . . . at least from a continuity standpoint.
There are times when I wish I had a one or two predator traits—times when I’d swap flight, buoyancy and brains for quick healing and a concrete skull. Like now.
I opened my eyes, squeezed them shut, breathed carefully for a few seconds, and sat up. I immediately regretted it; my head hurt like throbbing, nauseated hell.
“You’re awake,” a voice said. “Good.”
“Lies,” I said. I reached back to touch the back of my head and regretted doing that, too.
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I couldn’t think of what to write next and I couldn’t figure out how to introduce my hero to the Big Bad.
So I hit him over the head with something hard . . . and ended up solving both problems.
Who knew?
I’ll try to visit everyone today, but if I’m a little late, please forgive me. I have a wordmeter to feed!
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*In the movie, a reporter tries to figure out why the dying word of Charles Foster Kane, a wealthy newspaper magnate, was “Rosebud”. But the movie also makes a point of saying that Kane died completely alone in his otherwise empty mansion. So how did anyone know what his last word was? Unlike Orson Welles, I’m not talented enough to get away with this kind of thing.
Earful of Cider 