Brain Matter, or Brains Matter, or Hey, It’s WIPpet Wednesday
The logical part of what’s left of my brain tells me to leave it gel for a little while. Let my subconscious take over. It will all work out. It’s not like I don’t have other WIPs, other projects, a tiny little plate overflowing with All The Things That Must Be Done (which is just slightly above the plate overflowing with All The Things I Want To Do For Reasons). Unfortunately, I also get a bit like this when I’m stuck
I know. Hopeless.
Needless to say, I haven’t done much work on anything else. However, anyone who enjoys the bits of The First House that I’ve thrown out as WIPpets, and are interested in doing a Beta read, let me know. I need one or two more pair of eyes on it. It finished off at slightly over 24k. While that’s happening, and while I’m trying to get Emergence wrapped up for that set of Betas, I should be working on Crossing Paths. Oh, and that other WIP . . . yeah, that would officially be #4. It’s a fantasy short tentatively titled Fortune Favors the Cold. It’s slated for submission to an anthology, the deadline of which is . . . October? I’ve got a good start on it, but being a true pantser I currently have no freaking idea where it’s going!
I’m also Beta reading and have some reviews to catch up on. Who remembers that I have a day job, a husband, 6 dogs, way too many sheep, three steers, and a cat? Obviously not me. *whump* Good thing they’re all low maintenance. *cue hysterical laughter*
Clean the house? Dishes? Laundry? You want something to eat?!!?
*THWACK!* Suck it up, Buttercup!
Okay, all better now.
Hey, it’s Wednesday. Today is Wednesday, you know what that means, We’re going to share a special WIP!
Oops, a little Mickey Mouse Club flashback going on there. *ahem* Here then, for 8/21/13 I give you . . . um . . . 21 sentences from page 8, according to my Word doc file, of The First House. This time, Quinn is entertaining us with his fighting prowess.
Quinn cocked his head to listen, but only the rain and the low rumble of thunder reached his ears. He started to turn when movement caught the corner of his eye. A sword whistled through the space where his head would have been had he not ducked. He pulled his arm in an arc, about knee level, but the new threat vaulted into the air, over Quinn’s blade as well as his head.
He landed in the middle of the trail and they faced off, taking time to size one another up. The man may have been one of the riders with Fairling, not that it mattered. Quinn spun the grip of his sword against his palm. The man settled his blade across his buckler, and leveled it at Quinn’s chest. A flicker of lightning glinted dully off the sleeves of a mail shirt. It made Quinn feel a little naked in nothing but wool and leather.
“May I just ask,” he said, as the man mirrored his move to the right. “What is it you’re about to give your life for?”
The man curled his lip. “Is all royalty as cocksure as you and your brother?”
“I think we tend to be, yes.” Quinn took another step, and twisted his boot heel into the softened ground to anchor it. “Goes with our level of training. Are all thugs as willing to die as you?”
His answer came by way of a lunge. Quinn let him come, not even raising his sword. As the man closed the space, Quinn shifted his weight onto his planted foot, dropped under the buckler, and kicked out with his other leg.