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Happy fall! And happy Work in Progress Wednesday!
I know—I missed a couple of WIP Wednesdays, but we are back! For visitors: WIP Wednesday is usually the first Wednesday of every month. It’s when I share an excerpt of what I’m working on, and if you’re a writer, so can you.
Be sure you’re subscribed to the blog (sign up in the upper lefthand corner) so you’ll get a heads up about future WIP Wednesdays. And read through the rules before posting!
The Rules:
•Share an excerpt to 400 words or fewer. If you post a longer piece, I may trim it.
•Feel free to share work that’s still rough. I usually do!
•Salty language is fine, but please don’t include graphic sex or violence.
•Don’t link to work for sale. However, you can link to your website!
•Avoid making criticisms or suggestions, because we’re usually sharing work that’s not even ready to be critiqued. However, leaving someone an encouraging word is good writer karma.
I’ve been toggling between a couple of different projects, not exactly sure what I want to do next, but I just realized last night that I would like one of the new stories way better if the heroine had a sister and they could chat about everything.
From the sidewalk, my younger sister and I squint up at the hand-painted sign above the ice cream shop. It features a cackling clown with a big red nose and the name, spelled out in block letters: DICKS DELIGHTS.
“Should be an apostrophe before the S?” Audrey asks. Her cheeks are pink from the cold.
I give a skeptical tilt of my head. “I don’t think that would make it better.”
“The sporting goods store has an apostrophe.”
“But what they don’t have is a scary clown.”
“I like clowns,” she reminds me, and holds up a hand toward this one. “He’s just trying to make people happy!”
And taking him down was going to make me happy. “Well, if Dicks Delights could thrive, with the unfortunate name and the terrifying clown, then obviously Liv’s Ice Cream will be a smashing success.”
“Don’t forget your slogan,” she adds. She came up with the slogan.
“Right. ‘Liv a little!’”
I have planned for this morning for years, and now that it’s here, I feel a little bit that I might throw up. Why are we the only ones on the sidewalk? Isn’t this supposed to be a bustling shopping area?
I go ahead and ask it out loud. “Is this insane? I only worked at an ice cream shop for one summer.” It had been a college job. My favorite job ever, but still.
“That’s plenty of experience. Plus you have amazing recipes,” she says stoutly. “The cherry cobbler flavor will be legendary.”
“They do like their cherries around here,” I say, feeling braver.
Besides cherry orchards, Door County, Wisconsin has hundreds of miles of Lake Michigan shoreline, lighthouses, gorgeous foliage in the fall, and a seemingly endless supply of adorable shops and restaurants. Audrey and I grew up in Chicago, and our parents used to take us here every summer. Millions of people visit every year, and with every year, they spend more money. I know, because I had to look up the numbers when I wrote my business plan to get a loan.
“They’re not open any more,” a voice says behind us. I turn to see a guy wearing a huge white parka.
Yay! A future customer! I beam at him. “It’s going to open again! I’m buying it!”
“You can’t buy anything. It’s closed,” he says flatly. I open my mouth to try again, but he continues down the street.
I’m with Audrey here. I think clowns get a bad rap!
If you want to, share something of your own below…
OR, just share your writing goals for the month or the fall. Or if you’re not a writer or don’t feel like talking about writing, just tell us what’s going on with you! Thanks so much for stopping by, and have a great rest of your week!
Bryn, hi. At last, I’ve got everything figured out! Yeah, right! Do I just put my 400 word sample in the comments section? Where?
Hi Mary! It’s great to see you! Yes, you put it right here in the comments (I recommend copying and pasting here!) 🙂
This is my first post, so I’m a little nervous. Here are the opening paragraphs of my WIP, a steampunky/planetary romance which starts in an observatory:
===
Priscilla Tyler – Tye to her friends and simply “Tyler” to her tutor, not even a “Miss” prepended to her name – entered the Carter Observatory and mounted the cast iron staircase to the observation gantry. At the top, Tye paused to catch her breath and chanced a glance down, three levels to the Observatory’s floor.
“Oh my,” Tye gasped, stepping back from the edge and clanging into the steel bulk of the Morgan-Baker telescope. This collision prompted her to look up, past the lattice-work of girders, through the glass dome and into the infinity of the night sky. Giddy, she shrank back against the machine, her right hand pressed to her racing heart, as she fought to control the dizziness.
“Stupid girl,” she grated to herself, glad that no-one could hear her, suspended as she was so far from the ground. Why do I always do that? she questioned herself. Tye hated heights, had done since she was little, but she seemed drawn to the edge, wherever that “edge” might be. It haunted her dreams and had unceremoniously ended her first and only courtship. As she controlled her breathing, Tye wondered what had happened to Jacob Marks all those years ago.
Flattening herself against the cold steel of the Morgan-Baker, Tye inched her way towards the mahogany desk. A foot from the solid wood she paused, daring herself to make that move. Mouth dry, she swallowed hard, sandpaper on her tongue, and took a half-step forward, aiming for the corner of the darkly-varnished bureau. Another half-step, a solid hand-hold now scant inches away, Tye swallowed, closed her eyes, and reached out.
It took but a second to grasp the cool wood of the bureau with her right hand. She lurched forward and secured her hold on the desk. Safe for the moment, Tye glanced around for the chair. Her heart sank as she spotted it, five feet beyond the far end of the bureau, against the railing that surrounded the observation gantry.
“Who left it there?” Tye grumbled. Surely the professor had rules for that sort of thing? He had rules for everything else.
Here is a sample from my work in progress Her Hidden Star. Julie is a plus size apartment manager who is secretly married to Harrison Scott, the hottest actor on the planet. Julie is with him at a photo shoot and an assistant is blocking Julie from getting coffee. Harrison’s publicist Lisa steps in.
In that moment, Julie knew who she was dealing with. Someone who took one look at Julie’s fat body and decided that she wasn’t worthy because of her size. She couldn’t fathom that someone like Harrison Scott could possibly be interested in a woman who wasn’t thin. The thin woman was making unreasonable demands and holding up the shoot. The fat chick just wanted a cup of coffee. Only now, she wasn’t so sure anymore.
Lisa held up a freshly poured cup for her. “I wasn’t kidding about the coffee. It’s really good.”
Julie picked up a container of half and half from a bowl of ice and added enough cream to turn the coffee a nice rich blonde shade. She took a sip. Lisa wasn’t kidding. “Oh my God. I should have shoved that chick out of the way. This is amazing.”
”I’ll send you some back home,” Lisa said.
“Sorry you had to run interference.”
Lisa shook her head. “Trina is new and struggles with how to talk to people who have been on TV.”
“You talk to them like any other person,” Julie said. “Except maybe don’t be a jerk.”
Harrison approached, wearing a black suit and tie. He put his arm around Julie. “I heard someone was messing with my girl.”
“Babe, I’m fine,” Julie said.
Harrison kissed her forehead. ”Doesn’t make it okay.”
Trina approached with a calmer demeanor. “I’m sorry, Julie. I should have asked more questions. I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
Julie looked at Trina. “What did he tell you about me?”
”You’re his best friend. Makes sense now. I mean, I don’t put my arms around my best friend but…”
”I think it might be a good idea for you to find something else to do,” Lisa said. “Julie needs a break from you.”
Trina walked away. The air felt a little lighter. Julie stepped back from Harrison so she could get a good look at him. Fourteen years later, he still took her breath away.
“You look incredible, baby,” Julie said.
Harrison put his hand on the waist of the jacket. “You think so? Not too stuffy.”
Julie shook her head. “No. It’s perfect.”
Harrison leaned forward and gave Julie a kiss. He rested his forehead against hers. “Thanks for being here with me.”
Here’s a scene for my WIP (historical fiction set in my hometown of Orange, California) that just poured out of my head. If you see something janky, please comment…please. It’s 1910. It’s at a soda fountain. Two best friends have just been seated.
“Well hello, ladies.” A young man stands to the side of their red-upholstered booth. White apron on. White paper hat on. A smirk on. “Menus are there behind the napkin holder and straws.”
Colette studies the red and white spiraled paper straws in the glass jar. She lifts the shiny chrome lid and lets it go down several times, making the straws fan out in the air like a Fourth of July firework and then tighten up again, uniformly standing as if they’re elongated soldiers.
Hazel witnesses her friend’s odd behavior. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” She lifts her chin and squints.
“Your dress for the Fair.” Colette retrieves a straw and studies it. “White, with red ribbon accents. Spirals. Woven through eye-lit lace.”
“With restraint though,” Hazel says. “I don’t want to look like a Christmas candy cane.”
“Yes, of course. You know you can trust me. So, on your parasol we can—”
“So sorry. Clearly we got distracted.” Hazel clears her throat as she returns her attention to the young man. “No need for menus. Chocolate ice cream soda for me, and a strawberry one for my friend.” Hazel nods and looks for Colette’s agreement.
Colette bobs her head too. “With extra cherries on top, if you please, monsieur.” She turns to Hazel, “And for you hat…a few cherries!”
He scribbles on his notepad and looks up, “Yes ma’am. I mean madame. I mean mesdames. ”
“How sweet of you to know the plural of madame. Wherever did you learn that?”
“From my grandmother. You may have heard of her, Madame Helena Modjeska.”
“The actress.”
“Yes, the actress, the writer, the singer, costume designer—” He pauses, looks to the drug store’s ceiling as if to help him remember. He continues “—memoirist, illustrator, land baron, housebuilder, gardener. Even Polish royalty. My grandfather was Count Bozenta.”
Colette claps discretely. “She would be so proud that you remembered all of that about her. I was sorry to hear of her passing last year.”
“She was all that and more. I miss her. I truly do. But I think she haunts her house up in the canyon. I can feel Grandmother in her Forest of Arden. Did you know she named it that after one of the places in Shakespeare’s As You Like It.”
“Shakespeare no less,” Colette responds with a smile and a shrug.
“In her day she was quite the celebrity, or so I’ve been told. And read. Did you know—”
“Herbie! Stop your yacking. Order up!” The brusque command comes from the cook behind the counter. All three at the table turn to look.
“Gotta go. I’ll personally make your sodas, ladies.”
“Thank you, Herbie.” Hazel finally contributes to the conversation.
The young man dashes away.
“So what do you want to tell me? Here? Over an ice-cream soda?”
Hazel leans in. “I was writing in my diary yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“And I flipped the pages back to the beginning, to when I first posed for Cal.”
“Yeeeeeessss.” Colette repeats herself, but drags out the word. “Did it rekindle your feelings? Did you swoon? Did you—”
Hi Bryn!
Here is my current WIP, a regency era romance where a young woman is sent to the home of her brother’s friend, to care for his ailing mother. Attractions abound, though both know a romance is out of the question!
A mild breeze greeted Esme as she stepped outside and into a wonderland of scent. Though shrouded in darkness, the garden was no less enjoyable, simply for the fragrance that surrounded her. Breathing in deeply, her head tilted toward the stars, she smiled her appreciation. “It’s quite lovely, isn’t it.”
“I always thought so,” he said, nearer to her than she realized.
A simple cast from beneath her lashes showed her his darker form against the light coming from the parlor. And as her eyes adjusted to the Stygian landscape, she began to see the shapes and even the diminished color of the garden itself. To her right, away from where Stokely stood, was a garden bench, and beyond, a small path leading to somewhere unknown, perhaps holding interesting secrets. It would take daylight to quench her thirst.
“To truly appreciate this spot, we must traverse the path. If you give me your hand, I shall take you through, so you do not stumble or become lost.”
Though the moon lit the path well, he took up her hand in a light grasp, his fingers seeking hers and intertwining. She did not fight him as she might have only an hour before. His hand was warm. And though the evening was fair, a cool breeze brought the gooseflesh to her arms. Before she could admit to feeling chilly, he stopped, removed his jacket and placed it about her shoulders.
“It was thoughtless of me to invite you out here without a wrap. Please excuse my boorishness. I had not thought it might be so breezy.”
Had he thought her hands cold? Was that how he knew? She only knew that when he grasped her hand, his had been warm. Warmer than hers. “Thank you. I had not realized I was feeling chilly but you’re correct. The breeze, though refreshing, is a little cool.”
“If you’re all set, then, let us continue.”
Again, without waiting for an aye or a nay from her, he once again took up her hand, linking his fingers with hers, as if to caress each one, and led her deeper into the garden. Through a small maze of crisscrossed pathways, leading her to think she would never find her way back to the house again by herself, they came upon the center where a small structure looked out upon a floral landscape, hugging its wooden wall.
My new website is up and running at sonja-cross.com, and I’m inserting new material as I go. Currently it reflects only my already self-published contemporary books, but I hope to eventually include the regency romances I now enjoy writing!
Thanks for reading!
Sonia
Sorry, Bryn I’m Team Liv: Clowns are scary. 😄
Thank you so much for having another WIP Wednesday! I’ve missed it.
My snippet is a flashback to Isellta’s childhood. Ilstheena is his father and Marakai is his mother. And, as a helpful aside: Fey are able to mentally project their thoughts to those who have their minds open to them. But they can also put up a mental barrier to keep other fey from hearing their thoughts. All that said, here is my snippet for this month:
///////////////////////////////////////////
The room wasn’t completely dark. Bits and flecks of bio-luminescent green peppered the air.
Isellta sat up in his bed and reached for the nearest group of flecks. He giggled in delight as they flocked to his hand and settled on his skin. And it was a strange sensation: lightweight, barely any heavier than a grain of dust, yet strangely reminiscent of being hugged by Ilstheena.
Isellta rolled onto his back and studied the magic clinging to his skin. It didn’t just glow. It also had a sparkle to it, almost like sugar crystals. He tried to lick it off his hand. It tingled on his tongue, like the best kind of lemon candy. He giggled again and went to take another lick.
“Mara, look at me.” Ilstheena’s voice resonated inside his mind.
Isellta tilted his head and sat up again. “Da?” He listened as hard as he could for his mother’s mental voice.
“I know you’re tired. I know you’re frustrated.” His voice was like a warm embrace.
Isellta scrabbled out of bed and tip-toed over to the door. He opened it and poked his head out into the hall. “Momma?”
“I know you’re worried about him.” Ilstheena said. “I am too. But quae shia aqui Marakai. You can’t take your frustrations out on him. It isn’t fair. He can’t help that his wings haven’t emerged yet. He isn’t keeping them in his back on purpose. I know he isn’t.”
Isellta left his room and ran as quietly as he could to his parents’ bedroom.
Ilstheena’s mental voice fell silent as if he were listening to someone else talking.
But Isellta could not hear Marakai’s voice in his mind.
“Isellta is a lot like me. My wings took a long time to emerge, but they did. They finally did. And look at them now.”
He stopped outside their door.
“Ma shia dae Marakai.” His mental voice was love. That love trickled through his mental connection to Isellta. “Will you dance with me?”
Isellta took a step back from the door. He wasn’t fully sure what was going on inside the room, but something in his father’s voice made him feel shy. He ran back to his room and crawled into bed.
Ilstheena’s mental voice went silent again, but the love he felt remained.
The combination of his love and the glow of his magic lulled Isellta to sleep.
The further adventures of Alchemy Turner, a cloned Neanderthal in college.
“Quick, Karl, run. I hear sirens. Go! I can handle them.”
“Almy, with me, now.”
Men, stupid men. “Karl, that chain link will put you in prison. Run— Go!”
He sprints off, not towards Kappa Lambda but the railroad tracks.
Tires grind as police cars turn in and slide to a stop.
I raise my arms and face them, still as a bee.
“On your knees. Face on the ground.”
Gavel scratches my cheeks, and my wrists are handcuffed.
A female officer pulls me up and frisks me.
It doesn’t look good: four people rolling around in agony, and John lying still with blood oozing out of his forehead.
“Who did this?” A chiseled cop asks with the wrath of a parent.
“Sir, I did it.”
“Just you. Five-to-one and without weapons, impossible.” He pushes me over the hood. “No funny stuff, your name.”
“I’m Alchemy Turner of Pollark, Virginia, and a student here at Rodgers.”
“Miss Turner, you’re under arrest for suspicion of aggravated assault. And if that man doesn’t make it, a charge of manslaughter.”
Miranda rights are quoted to me with routine indifference. I reserve my right to remain silent.
They don’t seem to know I am a Neanderthal. If they did, I may have no rights.
~
The interrogation room is stark and bright. The one-way mirror is obvious. A detective and a female stenographer sit across the table.
“I’m Detective Renko of the Rodgers town district. State your name and address.”
“Alchemy Turner, Monroe Dormitory, Rodgers College.”
“Explain the circumstances for your arrest.”
“Do I have a right to an attorney?”
The detective puts his pen down. “Miss Turner, we can solve this right away if you answer my questions.”
“You didn’t answer my question. I want to have an interview with an attorney.”
“I’m placing you into a holding cell until a public defender can be found. Remember, you look guilty. Also, Miss Turner, you may be a Neanderthal, not entitled to human rights.”
“My mitochondrial DNA is human. Are you so sure about my rights?”
~
“Miss Turner, any attempt to deny you your human rights by the police would probably explode in their face.” Gill T. Asell, Esq, my new attorney and best friend, explains.
Hey Bryn! Love your scene! I’m intrigued already. Here’s the first part of the meet-cute scene in chapter 2 of my new WIP romcom. I’ve cut a bunch of it to try to make it fit, but it still goes a little over. The story is a whacky, over-the-top, friends-to-lovers called “All That Glitters”:
It was a picture postcard day in San Diego that afternoon, with the kind of sparkling blue sky and sunshine people moved there for. A crowd of families and friends packed San Diego University’s football stadium, all eyes watching the long wooden stage and line of graduates in caps and gowns on the field.
The university’s dean stood behind a podium in the center of the stage, working his way through the list.
“Veronica Hamlin,” he announced.
Applause filled the stadium as a poised young woman crossed the stage. She shook the dean’s hand as he gave her the diploma, then jumped up and down with joy as she exited the stage.
The dean turned back to the microphone. “Tony Harding.”
A fresh wave of applause rolled through the crowd as Tony crossed the stage.
High in the bleachers, a petite brunette leaped to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Yay, Tony!” she shouted. She tried to whistle, but it came out as mostly spit. At twenty-two, Debbie Campbell was the perfect spirited blend of impossible cuteness and the enthusiasm of a golden retriever puppy. What she lacked in coordination, she made up for in loyalty and heart.
As she jumped up and down, her sneaker slipped, sending her lurching forward into the back of an obese man seated in the row ahead. The impact caused him to jerk in surprise, his super-sized soda launching from his hand and splashing across the back of another spectator’s neck.
The victim, a muscular man with a flat-top haircut and newly soda-drenched shirt, whipped around, his face contorted with rage.
“Hey, fatso!” he snarled, shoving the other man with enough force to make him stumble backward.
The larger man shoved back harder, sending Flat-Top careening into a cluster of graduates’ families. They toppled like bowling pins, drinks flying, bodies colliding with other spectators in an ever-widening circle of chaos.
Like human dominoes, the chain reaction spread through the stands, a cascade of flailing limbs, airborne beverages, and increasingly creative profanity. Within seconds, what had begun as Debbie’s simple misstep transformed into a full-blown riot.
Down on the field, Tony had just accepted his diploma when the commotion erupted. He turned toward the source of the noise, squinting up at the bleachers where the brawl was spreading like wildfire. His eyes found Debbie in the epicenter, her hands covering her face.
“Of course,” he muttered, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
Higher in the stands, Debbie slowly peeked through her fingers, looking left, then right at the bedlam she’d accidentally unleashed.
“Oops,” she said with a cringe. That one word, which would probably be the epitaph on her tombstone one day, was the story of her life.
Hi Bryn –
This is a blurb of a present project. No title yet.
The phone rang and rang, and rang some more. Henrick Gallowman gnashed his teeth and came near to pulling out his hair. And the muscles on both sides of his head ached maddeningly from the constant clenching of his jaw. By the fifth or sixth ring, maybe more, Henrick ripped the infuriating apparatus out of its socket and flung the blasted thing over the balcony. Down and down it went as both the now frayed line cord and the coiled handset flailed about like the arms of a terrified victim. It exploded on impact six stories below. What was left ended pancake-like under an oncoming car. The culprit’s red taillights disappeared around a corner.
Death by phone-slaughter.
That could just as well have been whoever was on the other end of the call for all he cared. And good riddance. He didn’t like phones anyway; always sounding at the least desirable moment. Nowadays, that was every time it rang, which thankfully wasn’t very often.
The heat of the night forced sweat to roll down his forehead, scraped away with a crust-covered hand towel, but then the doorbell buzzed.
Great! That’s all I need. Visitors.
He huffed and rolled his eyes. Having to cater to the uninvited at this hour was not his idea of rest.
What time was it anyhow?
Henrick twisted his wrist around. Two-thirty . . . and some change. Not a convenient time for visitors. At all. Whoever it was had better have pressed all the buttons on the calling pad for someone else—anyone else—to buzz them in, that’s all he had to say. Knowing the attitudes of everyone else in this building, however, he doubted that would happen and the button pusher would just fade away with unfulfilled expectations. One could hope.
All the same, he stomped over to the intercom next to the front door and pushed the answer button. “You had better have a good reason for interrupting my sleep!” Not that he had been asleep, nor having had any in a while. Insomnia. The curse of his life.
The intercom crackled and sputtered unintelligibly. “Henry? I nee—”
“What? Speak up, damn you!”
More crackling mixed with broken (very broken) words replied.
“What?” he yelled, frustrated.
Nothing. No repeat. Dead air.
Henrick growled, returned to the living room, and dropped onto his couch, vowing not to give it any more thought.