Clarion West Write-a-Thon Update: Numero Tres

tumblr_lcbkp6hp5b1qcynl6o1_1280So…*taps foot* Seems I’m doing what I promised, minus a day here and there where life frankly gets in the way of decent, brain functioning time to write, and I have elicited precisely zero sponsorship for Clarion West. Guess no one wants a flash fiction of their own, hmmm? I’m deeply disappointed in you all. Do better. *sad face*

Anyway, update time. As usual, words have been written this week tallying to 1k per day, even accounting for the days with zero time to write (had my daughter’s birthday yesterday and a family visitation today – but I wrote on my birthday, which was Wednesday, so ner). Things are going well. I’ve cracked the 40k mark, as anyone who follows me on twitter will have seen. Those folks will also be aware that part one of ESCAPOLOGY is finito. Onward to part two!

So what did I do this week? Wrote some scenes I knew I needed to write, a total of 6.5k new words – huzzah! Friday was Umwelt day, and that was 1.3k words – so although I wrote nowt on the old novel, I got words did. I also rejigged a few ESCAPOLOGY scenes already written this week, as I realised I had a leetle plot hole. *coff* Yeah…so again, those followers on twitter will know it wasn’t exactly leetle. No. As I fixed it, to my eternal horror, it grew wider and wider, until it was a veritable black hole fixing to suck ESCAPOLOGY into oblivion! Eek. That wasn’t because the fixings were half-assed by the way. It was simply that, as I fixed, the true extent of the hole revealed itself.

Anyway, I spent a whole day re-thinking and re-writing those scenes to close that sucker up in an ingenious execution of story physics, and now it’s all ship-shape and Bristol fashion, but it was looking very dodgy there for a good while. Nail biting, I am telling you! The thought of going back and starting from scratch very nearly did me in. I am not the fastest writer, though I am trying to up my game.

All in, then, a productive week I am extremely satisfied with. And so onto the business of excerpts. Just a word about that first. I think that, whilst it’s nice to have snippets of things written during the past week, it’s also nice to see other bits written before etc. So some weeks I’ll be doing that maybe, but not this week, because I have a jolly bit of fun I’m raring to share. This here is my other female protag, name of Amiga. She’s a complicated lass. On a mission to help a friend in need, she’s had to delve back into her own past, and she’s not having much fun; which means when the man she has to ask for help – Old Saint Jimmy, manager of the GarGoils – decides to push his luck, her amusement level hits rock bottom:

‘Woah, woah, woah, love,’ he says, raising hands like she’s storming his barricades. ‘Thas’ a lil more’n one question, innit. Can’t ‘spect a fellah to jus toss it all out there without a lil incentive.’

He gives her a meaningful glance. It makes him look about seventeen times seedier. Like some ancient, slick-haired saddoe whose sex-appeal, if any, was handed in at the thrift store along with his last decently fitting pair of figure-hugging jeans. Amiga hangs on to her instinct to rip his face off by the merest whisp. She steps into his space. Same as all things, there are ways of doing this. Good ways and bad. Amiga hasn’t time for Cockney fun, she wants her name and location, that’s it. When she steps into his space, she devours it. Shrinks him to an insignificant wrinkle of skin on a bollock by her mere presence.

‘Incentive? Really?’ she snarls at him. ‘Perhaps you forgot my job already? Perhaps you forgot the intense pleasure I would derive from tearing out various organs through your fuckin’ japseye?’

Busy sucking on his smoke in what he thinks is a suggestive manner, Jim chokes on a lungful. ‘Jeez. Jeez. Jeez fuckn shit. Awite, awite,’ he splutters as he comes up for air. ‘Maggie Joust. Maggie fuckin’ Joust. Still DethRok, but don’ come ‘ere no more. Memories, see. Hangs at the BatCave far as I know. At least thas’ the place ta start.’ He eyes her up with red-veined peepers, watering profusely, still sparky though despite his obvious lack of advantage. ‘You got proper fuckin’ nasty, love. I admire that. Can’ say I don’. Take it easy, awite.’ He smoothes back his hair with both hands and backs away to the bar, eye-balling her as he goes. Amiga allows it for one reason only: they both know who’d die if she stepped up to the challenge.

So there we have eet. Done and dusted for another week. I won’t beg, but I will stare at you meaningfully whilst pointing at my freakin’ donate button. C’mon! Does a girl need to be famous before someone thinks having a personalised product of her brain is interesting? Are you all skinflints or what? Turn out yer pockets. Even if a personalised piece of my writing does not appeal you can donate less than $10 to Clarion West and be some sort of magnificent literary hero/ine! Press a button, jump taller than the highest building etc etc. You know you want to!

Here’s a picture of the sheep who saw Sauron naked:

black-sheep

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