Welcome to the second quarter of the year!
It’s April 1st, but I don’t observe April Fool’s Day. I do, however, observe WIP Wednesday! WIP Wednesday is on the first Wednesday of the month, and we share excerpts of writing that we’re working on.
To get a heads up about future WIP Wednesdays, make sure you’re subscribed to the blog. You can sign up below. And read through the rules before posting!
These are the rules:
•Limit your excerpt to 400 words or fewer. (I’ve changed the word limit a few times, but I did 400 last time, so we’ll stick with that.) Otherwise, I might trim your excerpt, and you might hate the way it gets cut off.
•No graphic sex or violence. Salty language is fine!
•Don’t link to work for sale. However, you can link to your website or a social media account!
•Avoid making criticisms or suggestions on other people’s work, including mine, because we’re sharing rough excerpts that aren’t ready for critique. Leaving some encouraging words, though, is good writer luck!
I’m actually writing the first draft right here in the blog post on a Wednesday morning, which I rarely do, so prepare for it to be rough!
Betty has just found out that she’s going to be taking over as the lead executive on a wholesome holiday movie, and she’ll be on set for the whole shoot. She’s very nervous about it, but she’s having a celebratory happy hour with her coworker and roommate Vanessa. Vanessa is a big fan of the actor starring in Betty’s movie.
I get that sensation again—like I not only lack a safety net, but I don’t even actually have a tightrope, and I will plummet like a cartoon character if I look down. All I can do is carefully place one foot after the other, pretending everything’s fine.
“Speaking of Luke Dalton,” Vanessa says. She leans forward in the booth, staring into my eyes. “Betty. You cannot hit that.”
I burst into laughter. “That’s your advice? Don’t have sex with Luke Dalton?”
Vanessa’s expression is earnest. It’s not an expression I see often on her. Her default expression is a slight smirk, as though she’s thinking of some private joke. She has Resting Wit Face.
But now, her eyes are wide. “Yes. Do not hit that.”
I laugh again. “Okay, first of all, since when do you tell me not to hit, uh, people?”
“You can’t hit people, Betty,” she deadpans. “That’s assault.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, in most cases, you should hit that,” she says.
“Most cases? That’s insulting.”
“You haven’t been with anyone since Josh. That’s two years! At this point, you’ve been re-virginated.—That’s a real thing,” she adds quickly.
“Sure it is. So you’re telling me not to have sex with a famously sexy actor.”
“I know it’ll be tempting,” she says, missing my point or ignoring it. “But this is Publicist Vanessa speaking. Heart & Hope movie sets do not have scandals. They don’t even have rumors about rumors. If anything like that happens, you’ll get fired. I’m so serious.”
At least there’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. “This is like telling me not to have sex with Cary Grant.”
“Yeah, he’s dead, so that would also be a terrible idea.”
“No, Cary Grant in his prime. He would’ve been completely out of my league. And so is Luke.”
“I don’t see why.” She doesn’t even sound like she’s kidding.
I shake my head. “You’re like my best friend from high school. She’s still in Kentucky, and she has this idea that I’m this glamorous, fabulous, successful Hollywood type. And I can never convince her that I’m actually just this…frumpy drudge.”
Vanessa takes the last drink from her bottle of beer and then fixes me in her gaze again.
“Betty, did it ever occur to you that your version of you is wrong, and your friend’s version is right?”
That scene actually wound up being longer, but I cut it to 399 words!
If you’re in the mood, share something of your own below…
OR, tell us about your April writing goals, or whatever else is in store for the month, if you feel like it! Thanks so much for stopping by, and have a great rest of your week!
They’ve been married 35 years and maybe it’s ending.
So she asked him as they drove back to the farm. “Do you love me?”
“I’ll always love you,” he said slowly.
“Are you in love with me, or do you feel like somehow life is passing us by and something’s missing?”
“Are we talking about you or me, Calsie?”
He was the only one who called her that, and she felt a little pinch of pain. “Maybe about both of us, although I don’t have a waiter calling me by name and leaning over my shoulder to fill glasses halfway down the table.”
He gave her a startled look. “What are you talking about?”
“The waitress. The one who called you Brody and pressed her impressive cleavage into your bicep.”
“Well, damn.”
He’d missed it altogether. Where had he been? “How can you not have known that?” asked Callie, irritated even if she wasn’t surprised.
“Because that was little Kaitie Richards. Jason dated her in high school. She’s married and has a bunch of littles running around. How can you not have known that?”
She’d been looking for something else was why. Looking for a reason. “I love you, too,” she said her voice flat, “but I don’t think I want to be married anymore.”
Their farm was eleven minutes from the restaurant. He didn’t speak until he turned into the driveway. “What do you want to do?”
Don’t leave it all up to me. I asked the question. I said I don’t want to be married anymore. Don’t make me go on being the bad guy.
But what if she was the bad guy? What if she was breaking his heart? He didn’t deserve that. He’d deserved it in the third grade and a few times since, but he didn’t now. Neither did she.
“I’m not completely stupid,” he said. “It’s been a while since you were happy. Or, I guess, since I was. But I can’t say I’m unhappy, either. You are, though, aren’t you?”
She took a deep breath, looking through a blur of sudden tears at the daffodils that lined the sidewalk to the back porch of the farmhouse. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
There was something wrong when the happy yellow song of spring flowers could rouse more emotion in her than the man she shared her life with.
An interesting excerpt. Is it the beginning? It’s a good hook.
The first section of a short(ish) story. It’s a fantasy called The Death of Magic.
The sun beat down on the valley. The pine trees stood silent and still, the scent of their resin permeating the air with a sweet, woody scent. Not a breath of wind moved the grasses
Six year old Arthon breathed deeply and looked longingly at the stream wending its way through the meadows. How lovely it would be to feel that cool water running over his naked body, cooling his sweating skin.
But his father would never allow that.
Quite apart from the shocking thought of being naked in a public place, they had work to do. They needed to collect certain berries that grew by the water’s edge for his father’s employer. The magician, Olivas, needed these berries for his magic.
Arthon looked up at the sky. No sign of clouds to give a break from the heat of the sun.
But what was that appearing over the snow-capped mountains? The boy squinted. Something round and blue.
He turned to his father and pointed. “Papa, look!”
Goroy shaded his eyes with his hand. “A balloon. It must be bringing the king for an important meeting.”
The balloon drifted closer, Arthon had never seen anything like it before. It was beautiful. A slightly deeper blue than the sky, but ringed around with golden threads. At least he thought they were gold. They were certainly a gold colour.
“How does it stay up?” the boy asked.
“Ah! That’s magic. Balloons need a magician to fly them. That’s why we don’t see them very often. Magicians are needed to keep everyday things going.”
“Can I be magician one day?” Arthon’s eyes widened as he imagined himself in a basket attached to a balloon, drifting silently through the sky.
“It takes a special person to be a magician.” Goroy told his six-year-old son. “There’s something magicians have the rest of us don’t. Very few people have it. That’s why there aren’t many of them.”
The boy thought for a moment, then looked at the balloon now approaching the highest tiers of the city. Perhaps I have this thing, whatever it is. Who knows?
“Come on, Arthon. We need to gather a basket of imbelberries.” He led the way to some bushes covered in black fruits, put the basket on the ground and began picking. “And don’t you go eating all you pick, or we’ll be here till nightfall.”
Soon the basket was full, and Arthon had blue stains on his fingers and round his mouth.
His father looked at him, shook his head. “How many?”
“I didn’t count.” The boy gave his father a mischievous grin. “But not as many as I put in the basket.”
On the way back to the city, Arthon, looked at the mountains, snow-capped even in summer. He frowned. “Why’s it cold on top of the mountains even though they’re nearer the sun?”
His father shrugged. “I don’t know, boy. It just is. You’re always asking such strange questions.”
Arthon pouted. “Don’t you want to know?”
‘It makes no difference to anyone. The world is as it is so there’s no point in asking questions.”
But Arthon kept wondering.
Hi Bryn,
Recognizing that a great many of us never see the potential, let alone what other’s see in us, tells me that this story is not only about her finding Mr. Right-even-if-he-is-a-movie-star, but also a story about a woman who will learn to throw out all the old come-downs she experienced through the years as she grew. Here’s wishing you the best on her getting her man (because it’s a romance and that’s what we write!) and having her awakening to her true self, and be able to see what others see in her. That’s huge, and not all of us are able to achieve that insight, so maybe this book can bring that realization to some of your readers, too!
I don’t have a rough draft to share, having just returned from a journey of a lifetime, reuniting with my old nanny whom I haven’t seen since I was 5. She’s now 87, and we’d lost touch for over 60 years. It was a heartfelt reunion brought about by a chance meeting on an airplane with someone who helped me find her. It is my next story but so much more difficult to write because it’s true. And I have no idea how to start. Any hints on writing bios/memoires would not be amiss.
Looking forward to your next work, Bryn!
Sonia
The sun beat down on the valley. The pine trees stood silent and still, the scent of their resin permeating the air with a sweet, woody scent. Not a breath of wind moved the grasses
Six year old Arthon breathed deeply and looked longingly at the stream wending its way through the meadows. How lovely it would be to feel that cool water running over his naked body, cooling his sweating skin.
But his father would never allow that.
Quite apart from the shocking thought of being naked in a public place, they had work to do. They needed to collect certain berries that grew by the water’s edge for his father’s employer. The magician, Olivas, needed these berries for his magic.
Arthon looked up at the sky. No sign of clouds to give a break from the heat of the sun.
But what was that appearing over the snow-capped mountains? The boy squinted. Something round and blue.
He turned to his father and pointed. “Papa, look!”
Goroy shaded his eyes with his hand. “A balloon. It must be bringing the king for an important meeting.”
The balloon drifted closer, Arthon had never seen anything like it before. It was beautiful. A slightly deeper blue than the sky, but ringed around with golden threads. At least he thought they were gold. They were certainly a gold colour.
“How does it stay up?” the boy asked.
“Ah! That’s magic. Balloons need a magician to fly them. That’s why we don’t see them very often. Magicians are needed to keep everyday things going.”
“Can I be magician one day?” Arthon’s eyes widened as he imagined himself in a basket attached to a balloon, drifting silently through the sky.
“It takes a special person to be a magician.” Goroy told his six-year-old son. “There’s something magicians have the rest of us don’t. Very few people have it. That’s why there aren’t many of them.”
The boy thought for a moment, then looked at the balloon now approaching the highest tiers of the city. Perhaps I have this thing, whatever it is. Who knows?
“Come on, Arthon. We need to gather a basket of imbelberries.” He led the way to some bushes covered in black fruits, put the basket on the ground and began picking. “And don’t you go eating all you pick, or we’ll be here till nightfall.”
Soon the basket was full, and Arthon had blue stains on his fingers and round his mouth.
His father looked at him, shook his head. “How many?”
“I didn’t count.” The boy gave his father a mischievous grin. “But not as many as I put in the basket.”
On the way back to the city, Arthon, looked at the mountains, snow-capped even in summer. He frowned. “Why’s it cold on top of the mountains even though they’re nearer the sun?”
His father shrugged. “I don’t know, boy. It just is. You’re always asking such strange questions.”
Arthon pouted. “Don’t you want to know?”
‘It makes no difference to anyone. The world is as it is so there’s no point in asking questions.”
But Arthon kept wondering.
Aw! I like that last line of dialogue so much!! Please let it stay in the final version. 💜
Also not celebrating April fools. Today is March 32, as far as I’m concerned.
I’m about to send my WIP to my beta readers. This scene comes after my main character got a visit from her love interest’s best friend, who decided to step in to try to help after things fell apart.
….
As I wait in line at the drive-through, Austen texts.
A Shep: I’m so so sorry. I didn’t see them.
And then he sends a link. The website is slow to load, but when it does, my stomach drops.
Austen Sheppard Gets Cozy with Mysterious Brunette
Not only is there a crystal-clear photo of us talking at Whimsy—there is an entire article dissecting this “sighting in Cain’s Hollow.” I scroll to the bottom, my jaw going slack at the hundreds of comments. Assumptions are flying—not a single one of them true. But it doesn’t matter, because all of those people think they are.
More pictures are sprinkled through the comments: one of Austen standing up to greet me, one of me smiling at Austen as we sat in that back corner, one of Austen reaching across the table as I sat with my head down and my hands folded in my lap. One of us walking through the shop on our way out with Clint at the edge of the frame.
I sigh. The blue minivan behind me lightly taps the horn, and I pull out of line into an empty spot, my stomach uneasier by the minute.
@AustenFanUpdate: She’s brunette, maybe 30s? Def doesn’t have a stylist or anything so not celeb.
Wow. They really don’t hold back.
@AustenGirl_25: Omg what about @RubySinclair? #AustenandRuby #scandal
Every time I tell myself to quit reading, my eyes betray me.
@SheppardSleuths901: #AustenandRuby was debunked. Ruby’s dating @TheRealCeciliaErndst
@FeralforSheppard: They look super comfy. I feel like he met her there when he was working and now he goes back to see her. Look how he leans toward her. He’s def into her
@SheppardSleuths901: Oh they’re something alright. @AustenFanUpdates my vote is on #newflame WHO IS SHE #AppleBlossomPrincess
@Austenismyloverpie: Hey @AustenGirl_25 did you see THIS ONE (eyes emoji) That huggggg!
There’s another photo, this one outside Whimsy. We’d just said goodnight, and yes, sure—we hugged. But it was a friendly, platonic, non-anything-else-they-might-call-it hug.
Sigh. It already has a thousand likes.
@SheppardsLambLiv: WAIT EVERYBODY STOP. Remember that crazy fan encounter at #TheCosmicPig a few months ago?? LOOK AT THE PHOTO!!
No.
@SheppardsLambLiv: I SWEAR it’s her. Same hair. Same build. Same BAG!
@BookishB: Not me rereading #TheCosmicPig posts and SCREAMING
@SheppardSleuths901: His BFF was holding her hand at #TheCosmicPig though. Like HOLDING HOLDING
@FeralforSheppard: gasp This is either a lowkey love triangle or we about to find out some THINGS ☕️
Beginning of Short Story
“What did I get myself into? This is so unlike me,” Meg thought as she rolled her suitcase to the airline check in. She was suddenly furloughed from her government administrative assistant job for two weeks, due to the plant shutdown for repairs. Meg didn’t just want to hang around home and realized this was an opportunity rather than a disaster. An opportunity to go more than one hundred miles away from home. She travelled once by plane as a child to attend her great aunt’s funeral in Oklahoma, and didn’t remember that trip. She really hadn’t considered a vacation away from home. The family home sat on a grassy knoll on the outskirts of Little Rock, Arkansas, on beautiful acreage. They never took road trips on summer vacations because usually someone was sick or there wasn’t enough spending money for the whole family to go anywhere.
The whole travel thing was complicated and Meg didn’t know where to start at first. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to travel with from work and the rest of her family and friends could not schedule time off on such short notice. She decided to travel alone. She was used to being around others all the time, and this time on her own might be just what she needed to come out of her shell.
Undecided about her destination, she threw a dart into the large North American map in the office and it landed on Chicago, Illinois. She couldn’t wait! Her parents were shocked at her plans to leave and especially the destination. They were country people and had no use for the city of Little Rock, let alone Chicago! Meg reminded them this was a short vacation, not a permanent move. They were still unclear why she wanted to leave, but they weren’t going to stop her.
Meg enjoyed the details of obtaining her airline flight and seat and deciding on a hotel, especially the online pictures of the city and all the sights! She was excited and nervous as she easily found her gate and waiting area, which was pretty full. She wondered which travelers were going home to Chicago and what they thought of Little Rock.
Looking forward to your Arlingtron Heights Event,
Susan
I’ve finally completed my first rough draft of my SciFi novel and am currently going through it chapter by chapter to proof and edit as required. Here are the first few words of the prologue:
“Anti-telepath sentiment began to rise after the Genomic Panic of ’57. Several purity groups unified, calling themselves the Trueform Alliance (TA).” — C. Leah, The Great Divergence.
Cecelia gasped as a sharp sting tore through her side. Her hand flew instinctively to the wound, fingers coming away slick with hot, sticky blood. She pressed hard, willing the flow to slow, and forced herself to look back.
The shooter lay sprawled on the ground, Fabia standing over him—only for Fabia herself to collapse a heartbeat later, her body folding as though the life had been snatched from her mid-stride.
“No!” Cecelia lurched toward her, but Ramia’s grip tightened, dragging her away with a strength born of terror.
“We have to move,” Ramia urged, her voice tight with strain. The pressure pulsing through their telepathic bond left no room for argument.
They rounded the nearest building, Cecelia stumbling as pain flared hot and bright. “We need to go back,” she gasped. “She needs our help.”
Ramia turned, her face pale beneath the soot and dust. “She’s not moving. Cecelia… she’s gone.” The words trembled in the air between them.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the ringing in Cecelia’s ears and the distant thunder of explosions. She pressed her hand harder against her side, fighting the dizziness threatening to pull her under. Beneath her palm, she felt the faint, fragile presence of her unborn child—a tiny spark of life flickering against the chaos. That alone kept her upright.
Ramia swallowed. “We’d best go.”
They ran. Smoke drifted through the settlement, thick enough to sting Cecelia’s eyes and throat. Every step jarred her wound, but she forced herself onward, matching Ramia’s pace as best she could.
“We should split up,” she panted.
“I’m not leaving you. You’re injured.”
“Ramia, you have a better chance without me. If they follow the blood…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Ramia’s mind reached outward, then recoiled. “I can’t sense anyone. It’s like being blind. They’re using something to block us.”
That alone chilled Cecelia more than the pain. “I’d heard rumours that they were developing a mind-blocking drug. No wonder they took us by surprise.”
I parked and trekked across campus, crushing leaves with the dress shoes I wore for teaching. My gelled hair stayed put in the algae-scented lake gusts. Gothic buildings swathed in vermilion ivy framed the quad where students tossed a pigskin.
I called my clammy classroom ‘the dungeon’; my lockup cell had been better lit, but these digs had historic charm. I placed my laptop bag on the teacher’s table, then plunked my coat down. Undergrads straggled in.
Magnus wasn’t there, but a gaunt young woman gaited in with feline speed despite her attire, a pea green spandex bodysuit—a cosplay outfit—with puffy white poms at the elbow ends. A dorsal fin dangled in back. It didn’t reach as far as the floor, but a fin.
Her pronounced chin made her face heart-shaped, though her eyes drew attention. The army green mascara layered as thick as Van Gogh’s impasto painting technique did no justice to her hazel orbs. I caught my breath focusing on her ocular color mix of gentle olive and amber brush strokes on almond-shaped golden palettes. I pondered if I’d encountered them before.
What was the headdress covering most of her flaxen locks? Were its padded areas faux gills? She approached the vacant front row. She lowered her eyelids and flashed a lopsided smirk at my perplexed stare. Something fluffy stuck out under her arm.
“Is that a service animal?”
“My puppy!” She cooed in a flat accent with the precise articulation of the educated, “Sweet Hermione”, and rubbed the canine’s ear. “My stuffed animal.” She nestled Hermione into the adjacent seat.
“Gotcha. Are you a student?”
“A furry! And you’re my teach. I’m Imogen.” Other students grinned mockingly.
She studied my perplexed expression. Her voice shifted to a lilt, “Hermione—in the movies—followed the rules, right? She evolved into a brave activist. So did I. Imogen is a Celtic name meaning maiden.”
I gestured at her flipper. “Maiden or mermaid?”
She harrumphed. “My parents were high on heroin when the nurses came by for a name.”
A joke? I wanted to slap myself; spandex ran skintight to her silly drooping tail. Could I be attracted to a fish?
[from Chapter 4,”City of Big Swindlers”, introducing a character]
I finally have a WIP to share. It’s been 15 years since I’ve seriously worked on an idea so I’m really nervous to share but this is the beginning, for right now.
Pacing by moonlight, Melissa looked over at her husband sound asleep, unaware of what she would soon tell him. She had to tell him.
Having had prophetic dreams since childhood, Melissa learned by telling someone about them she was able to put them out in the universe with no ill will. When she kept them inside, they festered.
Her husband understood her process and would listen, even if he used to tease her that she had gypsy blood in her veins.
Often these dreams involved strangers. This time was different. It involved Jason.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Jason asked, lifting his head, realizing she wasn’t next to him.
“Just another dream,” she replied quietly.
“Come back to bed,” he muttered half asleep, pulling the covers away for her to join him.
She crawled back to his warm body willingly. She was cold. She was always cold now. Cancer did that to her. It wasn’t fair but she had accepted her destiny. In the last four months since her terminal diagnosis, she had worked through three of the stages of grief. She was still on depression. She would miss her daughter growing up and growing older with her husband. Someone else would be living that life in her place. Her dream gave her a sliver of hope and peace though. But would it do the same for Jason?