Hello, hello! I hope your summer is off to a wonderful start.
I have a new summer tradition that I’m calling “golden hour reading.” It’s very simple. In the morning, I take note of what time the sun is going to set that day. Later, an hour before that, I stop work, go out on the patio, and read a book for pleasure until the sun goes down. It’s a very cheap luxury! (And maybe very cheap therapy!)
After editing books in progress all day, it’s been easy for me to skimp on reading published books, but reading for pleasure is so important for writers. Since I am writing in first person right now, I want to read ten first person contemporary romances and ten first person thrillers this summer.
And speaking of writers: today is WIP Wednesday!
I’ll share a little of what I’m writing on, and writers are welcome to do the same in the comments! As always, I’ll go over the guidelines.
Please note:
•Limit your excerpt to 400 words or fewer. Otherwise, I might trim your excerpt.
•Don’t link to work for sale. However, you can link to your website or to a social media account!
•No graphic sex or violence. Some adult language is fine!
•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!
What I’m working on…
I’m trying to finish both a romcom novel draft and a thriller draft this summer. It’s ambitious, but I love both projects! Since I shared an excerpt from the thriller last time, I’ll do a romcom excerpt this time.
Once again, I am drafting the scene right in the blog post this morning! So it really will be rough. Betty, who’s heading up the production of a made-for-TV Christmas movie, arrives at their hotel accommodations along with the director and other members of the cast—including Luke, who regrets signing on to the movie. Alan is the director, Jessica is the leading lady, Fiona is an actress in a supporting role, and there are several other crew members in the scene.
The inn is a tiny, restored train station—a red brick dollhouse of a building, with Victorian detailing along the roof. Next to it are a row of train cars, refurbished and brightly painted, lined up on a fake railroad track to nowhere, and with no engine to pull them, anyway.
“It’s adorable!” Fiona squeals. She runs over to a red boxcar, phone in hand, no doubt to livestream.
Luke—still wearing his sunglasses, even though it’s cloudy, like a douche—looks just as grouchy as Frank, despite being forty years younger than him. “There’s no way they have enough rooms in there for all of us,” he says, as more cast members and crew get out of the second van.
“Each train car is a room,” I explain. I thought they would think this was cute. It is cute. Extremely.
Quentin purses his lips and raises his eyebrows in a dubious expression. Seth says, “I feel like we’re on a Canadian children’s TV show.” Several of them chuckle.
“Like any of you have seen a Canadian children’s show,” I say lightly.
“I have, actually,” says Jessica, who is, quite famously, Canadian. And a mom.
“Oh right,” I say, attempting a laugh. What was I thinking? This is why I rarely attempt sarcasm.
Frank heaves a heavy sigh and says, “I can already tell the bed’s going to hurt my back.” I ignore my sneaking suspicion that he’s right.
From the boxcar, addressing her phone, Fiona sings out, “Hello, FionAddicts! I’m shooting my new movie this week, and this train car is going to be my home for the next couple of weeks. It’s in the middle of these beautiful Canadian woods.” She inhales deeply. “The scent of the pine is amazing. And this is so luxurious inside!”
I doubt that last part, and she probably does too, but in that moment, she’s my favorite person. The rest of them are snobs and they suck. They’re just standing in the parking lot, as if I’m going to tell them it’s a joke and whisk them away to a four-star hotel. Because there are so many of those in Sasquapeg, Nova Scotia, population 936. I’m positive they wouldn’t prefer the two sketchy motels where everyone else is staying, and the other option was an organic farm and bed and breakfast thirty miles away, which online reviewers described as a cult.
Okay, that’s 399 words! Immediately following this, Betty is going to realize that she accidentally failed to book herself a room…but because she wants to look competent, she will attempt to hide that fact from the cast and crew.
If you’re so inclined, share something of your own below…
Or tell us about what you’re working on, what you’re looking forward to this summer, or how things are going with you! Thanks so much for stopping by, and have a great rest of your week!
Here’s my WIP. It’s the start of the ‘meet cute’ between my Hero (Adrick) and Heroine (Rosalind) at the Ball of Last Resort.
Adrick stood alone, glass in hand, a dark, lanky figure in a sea of white muslin. He turned toward the card room when the air around him changed. It grew heavy, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
A woman in a faded ivory gown drifted into his path, lost in her thoughts, twirling her dance card by the string that attached it to her wrist.
She was petite, almost bird-like in her movements, and she wore a tall, powdered wig adorned with golden apples — though the gold leaf was visibly peeling, revealing cheap painted wood beneath. A stray copper curl had escaped the powder, vivid against the false gold—her eyes, when they met his, flecked with the same tarnished gilt and a gleam of mischief. His gaze traveled down her curvy figure, his fingers itched to pull the toga down just a bit to see a bit more of her fair skin and see how far that gold dust sprinkled on her shoulders went. As simple as the toga was up top, the gown billowed out around her, the draping on each pannier adorned with fabric apple blossoms. Compared to the other brand new apparel the ladies wore at this ball, it seemed cobbled together from bits and parts of older gowns.
He couldn’t help but stare at her, transfixed.
As she stepped closer, a strange electric thrumming started in Adrick’s bones. It was the same vibration he’d felt just before the still exploded — a warning of immense pressure about to break. Before he could manage a formal bow, she reached out. Her gloved fingers brushed his bare wrist as she plucked the crystal glass from his hand.
The contact was a jolt.
Adrick felt a spark jump from her skin to his — a white-hot needle striking dry tinder. For a single, suspended heartbeat, the ballroom fell away. He felt heat — not the heat of the furnace, but something older, wilder, like standing too close to a bonfire that had been burning since the world began.
I do not have time for this- romance, lust, or whatever this is. I’m here for one thing tonight-and it’s not her.
Adrick observed a hitch in the woman’s breath. Her mask slipped for a fraction of a second, and he saw genuine shock flicker across her face before she schooled it back into a practiced grin before she smoothly downed his glass of champagne.
Trisha! Your descriptions are lovely. It’s like he’s in a dream—and she jolts him out of it when she grabs his champagne glass. Thank you for posting! I hope you you have a great rest of your week 🙂
I just looked up what time the sun sets today. I’m all in on golden hour reading.
Aww yay! It’s so simple but it feels really good! I hope everything’s going well out there with you!
Your movie news is amazing; hundreds of creative professionals will be working from your words! Following is the beginning of the Dibs or Death prequel “GOOD COP, BAD DETECTIVE”, set in 1981:
A whiny box truck blanketed in Chicago rust careened by. The copper-haired rookie riding shotgun, know-it-all Murphy, wagged his finger. “Dom, let trucks go! You’ll regret it.”
I flipped on the siren and flashers and turned to his ruddy face. “I’m training you, Kiddo. It ran the stop sign, it’s speeding and overweight.” I pointed at its sagging cargo area. “Mayor Byrne will pin you a medal for the ticket revenue.”
He rolled his porcelain blue eyes. “Dad was a captain. They say Grandad was the first Chicago Police officer ever killed in the line of duty.”
“It’s my job to keep bagpipes from playing for you.” I accelerated our Dodge Diplomat. Murph acted like his family was one of the city’s most powerful Irish clans. It was.
He twisted an empty French fry bag between his greasy fingers. “You talk like you wrote the Police Academy study guide. My family’s all cops and politicians. Neither very honest but I know how it is.” He waved his left hand dismissively. “You don’t know shit.”
Raw Detroit power caught us up to the truck, whose driver hesitated about whether to pull over or force chase. He finally screeched his twenty-four-footer to a halt in front of a ham processing plant’s Polish language sign starring a cartoon pig. He stuck his license out the driver’s window.
From the caldron of the eighty-five degrees out my open window flowed an aromatic mix of meat processing, and metalworking fluids, and Sulphur dioxide and enzymes birthing corn syrup, leavened by algae in a stagnant backwater edging the river.
I unclicked my revolver’s safety. “Listen, Kiddo, I got promoted in record time. Two years, age twenty-three.”
Murph tossed the fry wrapper out the window. “You got a napkin?”
“For fry grease?”
“Your nose is covered in shit.”
The truck idled on its bulging tires, spewing repugnant exhaust in the parking lane of Blue Island Avenue as cars and big rigs roared past. President Ronald Reagan’s voice came over in a newscast blaring from a car’s open window. He’d survived a recent assassination attempt.
A minute later, we’d exited. The trembling driver squeezed his key into the heavy-duty padlock on the back of the truck. Murph strained to yank the metal door open.
After the door stopped squeaking and halted with a thud, Murph raised his arms. “Mother of Jesus! Better be a bill of lading for that!” I instinctively reached for the truck driver. But he wasn’t there. The driver had silently slipped a few steps away, and now his gym shoes pounded the pavement. Murph sprinted. I stared into the truck piled full of hundreds of boxed TVs: Zenith, Motorola, Sylvania.
Murph screamed, “Stop! Hands up!” He ate like a teen at a shopping mall food court but had run track in high school. “Drop your gun!”
The JGCU (John Gurney Chicago Universe) is expanding! Great scene! Amazing details. I miss seeing all the Polish signs in Chicago (there are probably just a few, here and there, but more in the suburbs now!) “He ate like a teen at a shopping mall food court”—haha, that is so perfect for this period.
It really is exciting news about the movie, but somehow, I hadn’t thought of that in quite that way until you said it—hundreds of creative professionals working on my story. That’s kind of intimidating! Haha. But still exciting.
Thanks for posting, John! I hope your summer is off to a great start!
Ha! Yes, the Chicago Universe… works for Chicago Fire, P.D., etc. Not that you ever should suffer imposter syndrome, but if you do, just remind yourself they made your book into a movie. That’s big time.
You captured the vibe of the time so well and the back and forth banter is wonderfully colorful. Thanks for making me hungry for some deep dish. (sigh). Have a great week!
Hello everyone! Here’s what I’m working on. It is a cozy mystery full of small-town drama. Brooke is finding a surprise at her grand opening.
“I couldn’t believe it. Today was my grand opening, and Sharon’s body was lying in the center of the floor.
This was a woman whose face was on the back of millions of New York Times bestsellers, but now she was completely still, ruining the antique rug I’d just purchased at Billy’s Antiques.”
Grace still hadn’t closed her mouth. I knew she couldn’t wait to tell everyone in town what she had walked in on. She was the town’s local newspaper. Who needed the news when you had Grace?
“Brooke, I think we should call the police now.”
I knew Jessica was right, so I grabbed the phone before Grace could snatch it.
“I don’t think you should do that, Brooke.”
“And why not, Grace?”
“Because, honey, you’re going to get life in prison without the possibility of parole.”
My eyebrows creased, tired of sitting through Grace’s unexpected accusations.
“I’m sorry, but are you insinuating that I did this?” My voice was harder than I normally spoke.
“It doesn’t matter if you did or not; the body is in your shop, and besides, you were acting strange earlier, trying to rush me out.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember my mother’s advice about controlling my temper and respecting my elders.
Unfortunately, my temper wasn’t listening.
I lunged toward Grace.
Jessica stepped between us so fast she nearly knocked me backward.
Grace, entirely unaware that she had almost become the second victim in my salon, kept right on talking.
Until Jessica cut her off.
“Whoa! Nobody’s going to jail today. Brooke, call the police, and I will go outside and try to entertain everyone. Grace, let’s go!”
“Okay. By the way, I’ll be praying for you, Brooke. I do not accept collect calls or prison letters.”
I was hesitant about calling the police. What if Grace was right? I was on my way to jail for the rest of my life.
My hands shook as I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
A lump formed in my throat, trapping my words.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the voice came again.
My voice cracked.
“Yes… I would like to report a murder.”
Trameeca, hi! Sorry your post got held in moderation—that won’t happen again! Ahhh, I love small town cozy mystery, and a grand opening is a great backdrop. I smiled at “She was the town’s local newspaper. Who needed the news when you had Grace?” Great conflict here! I really enjoyed it. I hope we get to read more!
Bryn, thank you! I’m always nervous about sharing my work. However, I look forward to sharing more. I hope you have a great day.
This was great. I love small town murder mystery. The only thing, for authenticity and speaking as someone who worked dispatch for 20 years, the first thing we ask is “what is the location of your emergency.” Reason being, if that’s the only thing we can get, if the call is interrupted or dropped, we can get someone there.
And if it’s a small enough town chances are she knows the person who answered the emergency line 😀 Even more fun!
Hi Donna, that’s a great tip!!! Thank you🙂
“So, there are already rumors about us,” Hazel said, a statement, not a question.
“Of course there are. We are three young, single women living together without a male relation in sight, making potions -” Rowan began.
“We don’t make potions!” Hazel threw her hands in the air.
“They think we do,” Willow shrugged. “But even if they are talking, it hasn’t stopped the flood of people coming to the apothecary door at all hours. When I came out here early this morning, there was already a boy asleep on the stoop. Said his mother sent him to be here as soon as we opened to get something for her poor baby’s cough.”
“What did you give them?” Rowan asked.
“She gave the boy some honey cakes and hot chocolate to warm him up while she got a basket ready with the chest salve, tinctures, and the other accoutrements.”
“And then I walked the boy home so I could explain to his mother. She sent me back with a chicken and some butter,” Willow smiled.
“I think she just wanted to be rid of the chicken,” Hazel grumbled and glanced down at her hand, inspecting her finger. “The little featherbrain pecked my finger twice. In the same spot.”
Rowan looked at her open-mouthed. “My sister, who can get even the most stubborn of animals to mind her, was bested by a chicken? What is the world coming to?”
“We can always eat the chicken,” Willow suggested.
“No,” Hazel said quickly. “You know the rules. I can’t eat any animal I’ve met.”
“Then the chicken is safe for the time being.” Rowan looked at her list on the work bench of what remedies needed to be made to keep on hand for the coming winter.
Willow announced she was going back inside the main house leaving Rowan and Hazel to work. She was not as adept at preparing the items, but she was good with the people. Her gift for sight didn’t just pertain to spirits.
Hi Donna! Ohhh, this absolutely warmed my heart from the beginning. And “bested by a chicken”—hahaha! This sounds absolutely delightful. I want more! I hope your summer is off to a good start!
Near the back of the local Starbucks, Valerie sat alone with her notebook and other personal items, surrounded by conversation and clattering cups yet feeling strangely separate from it all. She hadn’t stopped to grab a hot drink or anything to eat; rather, she had needed a private place to review her journal notes, careful enough not to let anybody see them.
Valerie’s shoulder-length light auburn hair partially hid under her navy blue headscarf, which was embroidered with white roses. She studied her journal for a few minutes before taking a break. Then she reread the final journal entry. The signs were aligning faster than Beth had predicted. Every day brought another confirmation. It wouldn’t be much longer now.
The next time she looked up, someone was standing a few feet away from her. He was wearing ordinary black clothes. Nothing appeared unusual; his eyes seemed harmless enough. It wasn’t until he tilted his head that Valerie noticed the serpent tattoo disappearing beneath his collar. Then he came closer, making her pulse stumble. The journal nearly slipped from her hands. She managed to quickly close the cover and conceal its contents.
“Let’s see that.”
She looked up and froze. He stood over her now, and appeared to be sneering. Above his brows, something else seemed to bulge beneath the skin, as though another eye were trying to open. He continued staring at her, as she tried not to show her discomfort.
She considered telling him to go away and leave her alone, but remembered that there were other people present. Instead, she asked him quietly: “What the hell do you want?”
“Nothing. Except to give you a message.” He leaned in closer. “Avichi is everywhere. Remember that name. Because he is after you, your family, and your friends.”
Hi Amy! I love how we’re at one of the most normal places in the world, and then things get very strange. And this: “…something else seemed to bulge beneath the skin, as though another eye were trying to open.” That is so creative AND creepy. Great stuff. I also love the phrase “making her pulse stumble”—I don’t think I’ve heard that before! Thanks for sharing. I hope everything is going well with you!
EEEP! I can’t believe I forgot that yesterday was WIP Wednesday!!!
Here is my excerpt.
//////////////////
Hildreth wanted to just stand there and admire Elsie as she approached, but that sense of being observed became too strong. He glanced around. “Hey! If you’re going to just be some sort of weird peeping Tom/voyeuristic flake, you really should just—-”
Eerie stillness stole the words from his throat. Reality disconnected. Light and darkness were the same thing. The houses around him were clumsily made out of black, white, and gray baby blocks.
Oh.
Well.
This can’t be a good thing. Am I alive? Am I breathing? He put his hands on his chest. Much to his relief, he could feel his chest rise and fall. Okay. That’s good. But…Elsie! What about Elsie? Is she all right?
Before he could check on her, a glowing figure emerged from the ground. It was shorter than Hildreth, barely reached his chest-height, and wrapped entirely in long strips of white muslin. It would have looked like a mummy, but the strips were not tied into place. They streamered straight behind the figure, wafting in slow motion like an anemone.
The cold radiated from this strange glowing figure.
“What are you?” His voice came out small and isolated.
The figure did not reply. It increased its height until it was face-to-face with Hildreth. Only then did it raise one of its hands and reach for his face.
Hildreth slapped the figure’s hand away. “No touchie. I’m a married man.”
The figure didn’t show any interest or understanding. It tried to reach for his heart.
“Yeah.” He swatted that hand away as well. “No. That’s off limits too.”
It lowered its hands and stood, silent and still and so cold.
Hildreth rubbed his hands up and down his arms. A distant memory came to his mind—-Sitting at some sort of campfire…telling stories…a story about the Blanca Fantasma—a ghost-like extraordinary that was theoretically akin to wraiths.
But Blanca Fantasmas did not go after deep fears.
They devoured love
“Uh-huh. So, this has been a nice visit, but I gotta go.” He backed away, not trusting the Blanca Fantasma to turn his back to it.
It slowly tilted its head to the left and, with equal slowness, to the right. On any other extraordinary, that would have been a cute and endearing gesture. On this one, however, the gesture was uncanny and unnatural.
I need to schedule reminder posts for WIP Wednesdays, because hey, sometimes I forget, too! But I know people visit the WIP Wed. posts all through the next week. 🙂 LOVE YOUR IMAGES HERE. Like “The houses around him were clumsily made out of black, white, and gray baby blocks.” And “No touchie!” Ha! I’m glad you posted!! I hope you have a great weekend!
Loved the excerpt!
Ahh, thank you friend!
I’m late to this but needed to tell you that I snorted at “even though it’s cloudy–like a douche” lol. Thank you for that. Please make sure it doesn’t get trimmed out of the final! I also now want to spend a peaceful week in this cute little inn. Is it real?? (Please say yes lol)
I love the idea of golden hour reading. I’ve been reading books like a madwoman this year, just trying to escape doomscrolling and make a more analog-style life for myself again. I think I’ll join you on the golden hour reading. You should start a hashtag and trend on Insta. 🙂