But first…I want to talk about a couple of things I’m always embarrassed about.
The first thing is this: I always feel bad when I haven’t posted on the blog between my monthly WIP Wednesday posts. But August was a heavy month for our book editing business, and our dog Pippin had scary health issues that required multiple vet visits (I think he’ll be fine after another surgery, though!) And I have a couple of great posts coming up this month!
The other thing is a little more vulnerable: my whole life, I’ve felt embarrassed that I don’t write faster, and that I haven’t had a consistent writing practice. Some periods are better than others, of course. But I haven’t felt good about my writing practice or my progress for over a year. I feel that I should have another book drafted by now, and I don’t.
I always wanted to be the kind of writer who writes a certain number of words every day. But I often don’t hit my daily goal, and then I get discouraged.
For the last several days, though, I’ve been getting up very early and writing from 5 a.m. to 8 a.m. I’m writing by hand in spiral notebooks, which I really prefer for the first draft, so I have no idea what my daily word counts are. Maybe that’s for the best, because I don’t think they’re very high. But I’m learning about my characters, and I like how the story’s going.
So maybe I can be the kind of writer who sits down at her desk and writes for a few set hours every day. I would feel great about that, too!
Now, let’s get into WIP Wednesday, where I share an excerpt of a work in progress and invite you to do the same! Or if you just feel like chatting about your own writing habits, your pets, or what you’re looking forward to this fall, that’s great, too!
These are the rules:
•Limit your excerpt to 400 words or fewer. Otherwise, I might trim it.
•Don’t link to work for sale. However, you can link to your website or a social media account!
•No graphic sex or violence. Salty language is fine!
•Avoid making criticisms or suggestions on other people’s work, including mine, because we’re sharing work that’s still rough. But it’s good writer luck to leave some encouraging words!
This may be my last excerpt of my romcom novel that takes place on a movie set. Betty and Luke are eating pizza in his hotel room…and she’s talking about her own misgivings about writing.
“I thought movie stars were supposed to be self-involved,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “So I’m a movie star.”
“Obviously.”
“But I’m doing it wrong.” He looks genuinely amused, with that light in his eyes, and the dimple. And it’s terrifying, because oh my gosh, I would like to be the person who makes him laugh. The one who, if she sees him looking a little down, climbs in his lap and teases him…
And he’s going to read that on my face, too, if I’m not careful. I distract myself by giving him an honest answer.
“I used to want to be a screenwriter myself.” I wince and shake my head. “Ugh. I’ve never said that out loud before.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You never told anyone you wanted to write? Even at USC?”
“No, geez. When I was in film school I told people on the bus.” And that does make him laugh. “I’ve never told anyone I used to write. Like, in the past.”
“Why is it in the past?”
I shrug. “Because unlike you, I gave up years ago.”
He makes a face like I’ve said something idiotic. “So start again, if you want.”
I force a smile. “Pretty sure I’ve missed my window.”
“There is no window. The window is a lie.”
“You sure about that?”
He holds up a finger. “Okay, with a few things, there’s a window. Like professional baseball.” Or babies, I think, but I’m definitely not saying that out loud. “But most things?” He give a wave of his hand. “No window.”
“Just an open frame, no glass,” I say.
“That’s right. Jump on through there!” He takes another bite of pizza, chews, and swallows. “Mm. This is the last pizza I’ll have for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because in the next movie, I’ve got shirtless scenes.”
I’m pretty sure he’s got nothing to worry about, but okay.
“I’ve had better,” I admit. “Though I’m one of those people who thinks even bad pizza is good.”
“They used to say that about pizza and sex,” he says. And that’s exactly what I was thinking: the joke they made in college. My mama told me once they made the same joke when she was in college.
“You agree?” I ask.
He looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. I’ve never had bad sex.”
“Never?”
He spreads his hands. “How could I? I’m always involved.”
If you’re in the mood, share something of your own below…
OR, just tell us what’s on your mind! Thanks so much for stopping by, and have a great rest of your week!
Thanks for sharing your vulnerability. I think we all feel like that about writing progress sometimes. I’m rooting for your little Pippen and I hope his surgery is a success!
Aww, thank you, Jill! I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way about writing progress. Well, glad and not glad…you know what I mean! 🙂 Thanks for the good wishes for Pippin! He’s sending a cuddle back to you <3
Here’s another part of Her Hidden Star. Julie is packing for a trip to New York. She’s having dinner with her neighbor Paul. Marinda is her nosy neighbor who is obsessed with Harrison Scott and rude to Marinda not knowing that Julie is married to Harrison.
Paul was a frequent guest in her apartment and therefore knew where she kept her dishes. He plated their pizza while Julie sat on the end of her Murphy bed and quickly sent her username and password. A small violation of privacy in exchange for a night of peace and quiet.
“What time is your flight?” Paul asked.
”Midnight. I have to be at the airport by ten.”
”Need me to drive you?”
Julie shook her head. “I have a car picking me up. This way you can borrow the Land Rover.”
Paul shook his head. “I”m not driving the Land Rover. It’s nice but the navigator and all those fancy features? I’m fine with my bus pass.”
Julie set her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it open. ”I’ll leave the keys if you change your mind.”
Paul set a plate of pizza next to her. “Eat.”
Julie crossed to her closet and took a stack of T-shirts from her dresser. “I need to keep packing.”
”You don’t have to leave for like three hours. Five minutes of sitting and eating Bello’s will be good for you.”
The smell of pepperoni, green peppers, and onion was tempting. Paul talked her into the Bello Combo. Pepperoni, green peppers, and onion along with olives, sausage, and mushrooms with tomatoes on the side. Julie glanced at her plate with two pieces and a small stack of fresh looking tomatoes.
Before she could decide on her own, Paul gave her another good reminder. “A baby spit up on you and Marinda is your neighbor.”
Packing could wait. “You make a good point.” Julie took a bite of her pizza as a text message flashed across her screen.
Julie responded with a thumbs up emoji and set her phone down. “I was going to ask you. How was your date the other night?”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Not great. He kept mentioning my age and said he couldn’t believe he was doing this.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifty-five. So, slightly younger but in the same situation as me. Married to a woman. Realized he’s gay. Freshly divorced.”
“You’re not freshly divorced,” Julie pointed out.
“No, but it’s taken me ten years to realize that it’s okay to date.”
Hi Megan! This is such a great scene between friends (and not just because it has me craving pizza, though it does! I sent a pizza to some friends’ new apartment this week because it was moving day. 🙂 ) I feel for Paul. Sometimes it takes a while to get our heads around something. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you for sharing with us this week Bryn! I’m sorry about your sweet doggo- I feel like everything takes a backseat when someone you love is sick or hurt (as it should).
As far as the pressure you feel about writing, I totally get it. I feel that way too. I’m slowly working through book five but feel like I’m on a tightrope of bills and credit card statements that will plunge me into the abyss very soon. Am I just being indulgent? Should I just quit writing and focus on nursing? Is this the hormones talking, and much like when I was thirteen, will this mood pass in the time it takes to brew another pot of coffee? Lord, I don’t know, but I sure would be sad to give up writing.
If you need a little boost though, I saw someone had your book on their august reading list (5 stars of course!) and they were talking about how excited they were for the movie! I felt like Buddy the Elf- “I know her! I know her!
Ahh, sorry this comment got stuck in moderation! My blog knows who you are now 🙂 I’m glad I am not the only one…and yes, the financial debates are a part of it! But you’re too talented not to write. Hey, we both are!
Ahh, I love to hear about you seeing my book out in the wild…especially because they liked it! 😀 Haha, “I know her!” Thank you so much for being so supportive!
All my love and best wishes to you and Pippen. Everything stops when your dog is sick and no explanation is necessary. And I, too, am a very slow writer. To force my hand, I’m considering setting up my cozy mystery as a pre-order on Amazon since the penalty for missing that deadline is so severe.
Here’s the opening scene of said WIP, Jenny Solves a Murder, which is about an actress who inherits a mansion, a bookstore and a murder from her world famous mystery writing aunt. Luckily, she also inherits a beautiful collie to help solve the crime. My wife and I are working on the series (I write, she helps plot) based on our collie, Jenny. Here’s the website: http://www.annmaplewood.com
“Let me tell you a funny story about murder.”
I look up from my entirely too sensible egg white breakfast just in time to see Aunt Amanda cut into a buttery stack of pancakes. My mouth waters with longing.
“Funny as in ‘ha-ha’ funny?” I ask. “Or funny as in ‘here’s an ironic observation about the nature of man’ funny?”
Amanda gives me an enigmatic smile before she spears a perfect triangle of pancake and pops it into her mouth. A spasm of envy runs through me, and I silently curse all my upcoming auditions.
“Maybe a little of both,” Amanda says as she demurely chews. A server floats over to our table and, without asking, refills her coffee cup. Smiles when I shake my head no when she is about to refill mine and floats away. We are regulars at this diner, and they know that today is a writing day for my aunt, which means gallons of coffee.
“But before I get into all that,” she points her syrup dripping fork at my plate. “What’s with the prison rations there?”
“Oh, you mean this delightfully healthy breakfast?” I lift the plate and do a series of hand flourishes over it like a game show hostess. “I’m auditioning for some parts this week. There’s a new production of Sondheim’s Company in a few months. Romeo and Juliet way off Broadway. And there’s a revival of Levin’s Deathtrap in the winter; you would especially like that.”
“You are far too young for the housewife role in Deathtrap,” Amanda declares. And she’s right the wife dies of a heart attack at the end of Act
One. I would have to follow Aunt Amanda’s diet to make a credible cardiac case.
“They’re switching the genders,” I tell her. “The housewife is now a househusband, the scheming mystery playwright is now an older woman, and I would play the Christopher Reeve part, the sociopathic ingenue.”
“Well, you have the looks and figure for it, my dear.”
“Do you mean the ingenue or the sociopath part?”
“Stop,” she laughs, her voice mixing with the noise from the other patrons and the clatter of dishes.
“If I get the part, I’ll get you a ticket for the opening night,” I say. “I’ll get tickets for Greta and Steven, too. And don’t worry, you can go incognito.”
“I’m not sure Greta would let me. That daughter of mine loves the spotlight.”
Hi Frank! Oh, it’s true—the Amazon pre-order penalty is a powerful motivation! 😀 Dang, you’ve already got a killer (sorry) title and pitch for this book. Would one-click! I love the writing style. It’s so funny to read “a writing day for my aunt, which means gallons of coffee” when I’m here in a café on my third refill of coffee. I feel seen. 🙂 Hope everything is going well with you!
Bryn, I’m saddened to hear about Pippin’s health but am pleased he’ll recover and you’re back to writing! Below is the next stretch of “Starving the Locusts”, in 1928, waiting for rebel leader Manuel to arrive…
Since 1914, when Lake Maracaibo’s oil was discovered, Americans bothered to come bother us. Our dictator modernized, though his cronies pilfered petroleum wealth.
I asked, “Don’t they strike at dawn, too?” The church’s bell rang; a cock crowed and chickens clucked down the street.
Alejandro sighed and batted at flies on his dirty tunic.
I looked over my shoulder. Two elderly women dressed for mourning trod the lane adjacent the cemetery’s low stone wall. One scarred by smallpox held her gaze our way before lowering her head.
I trembled; we should either attack now without Manuel or cancel. Ants tickled my legs, so I shook them free.
Alejandro lifted his hand to pause me, then fixed his rifle under his chin. He spider walked beyond rows of crosses to where “El Profesor” Julio and my political science study group member Carlos lay waiting. Alejandro soon crept back, panting. “Thirty minutes. Manuel will come.”
A scratchy record of Scott Joplin’s ragtime “The Entertainer” and female laughter emanated from the open window of a clapboard bordello that leaned off plumb on the alley flanking the cemetery. Lights illuminated within. The police station remained quiet, and I hoped the policia stayed asleep.
A vulture landed on a pine limb above us, disturbing branches. Something rained down. I ducked, fearful of falling scorpions, but only bugs and loose needles crashed on my wavy black hair. I combed my locks with quavering fingers.
From the church, a somber, crimson-faced priest stalked in front of the two mourning women. A half-dozen pallbearers, of the sort hired for funerals, plodded along, their nimble feet avoiding the street manure. At the cemetery’s gate, the party turned and headed our way.
Neither Alejandro nor I needed prompting to lay still. Yet, on the funeral path yards away, pallbearers chuckled and whispered.
My great-grandfather was one of Simon Bolivar’s colonels, though his name didn’t adorn statues because he was more impulsive than of sound military judgment. One grandfather crusaded against slavery in the newspaper El Venezolano. My father had run, and lost twice, for Congress on the Great Liberal Party ticket. Friends joked I was a man’s man to criticize the government from the back row of my college classes. Yesterday, revolution streamed through my blood.
I shot my view at a mustachioed man stumbling out of the bordello, gripping a rum bottle. He steadied himself, then lifted his bottle when a rouged-cheeked lady in a dishelveled skirt shot out the bordello door. After shouting insults, she shattered her glass against the wall.
Alejandro recognized him. “Manuel!”
Hey friend! I think I’ve said this before—maybe more than once—but this feels so authentic, history-wise, and my mind is boggled at how much research it must’ve required. But that’s exactly why I love historical fiction…the feeling that you can go live in a whole different century. Manuel’s entrance is hilarious.
Thank you for the good wishes for Pippin! We appreciate it! 🙂
Hi, Bryn, I think we all feel vulnerable about some aspect of our writing. I like your “movie star”‘s confidence at the end of your excerpt. Made me smile. Your hand-written first drafts sound a fantastic discipline. Reminds me I loved doing that and lost the habit over the years. I must revisit it! I wish Pippin the best and hope his next surgery mends him. When our dog was ill, I couldn’t function, so I wish you well, too. This is my current WIP (I remembered this month! 🙂 ), possibly called The Lost Soul (still working on the title):
NATHAN. OLD ENOUGH BY FAR.
Trust your wolf.
That’s what Mac always said.
But Mac wasn’t here. Off on some “quick trip” through the veilway to the Mids plane, along with most of the pack, on some rescue mission so urgent he’d pretended it was nothing.
Nathan pulled his bed covers closer, as if holding them tighter would chase away his anxiety. What would his older “brother” do when he was scared? Hmm. Nathan had never seen Mac afraid of anything.
Still. If there was one thing he’d learned about the pack alpha who’d adopted him after his dad died, it was that Mac thought before he acted.
Underneath the covers, Nathan fumbled to close the screen with the graphic novel he’d been reading—a grounding offence, since it was past 2 in the morning and tomorrow was a school day. He slid it under his pillow. WolfLair: In the Beginning… could wait.
His rising hackles wouldn’t.
Nothing explained the prickling on the back of his neck, his heart pounding in his chest or his mouth drying like old wood. No banging, knocking, breaking glass…not so much as a creak in the castle’s long hallways and dozens of rooms.
Even that was odd. This Scottish castle was really old. Mac had said something about Saxon times and interesting history…blah blah…All that meant was everything creaked, leaked or made a draught.
And yet even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. Just like Nathan.
His hackles stiffened further, tingling. A low growl thrumming in his tummy.
Trust your wolf.
Mac had left the Watchers strict instructions about security and the Dreggan pack always obeyed their alpha. They’d be awake. The rest of the castle was quiet as a—well, as quiet as a pack of wolf shifters could be when they were curled up fast asleep, elderly adults in their own rooms, the nursery full of youngsters and carers. Nana had been sleeping there for weeks, too, since wee Caileigh was born.
Nathan had his own bedroom now, thank goodness. He’d been shifting since he was five and was getting the hang of it.
Anyway, nine was plenty old enough to find the intruder and then warn the watchers himself—wasn’t it? Even when the specific prickling on his hackles suggested magic was involved. Magic and something so dark his teeth had clenched hard enough to break his jaw.
This is a great scene, Kate!
Thanks for the encouragement, ktbond! I appreciate it.
Kate, hi! I don’t think I’ve seen this one before! I love the setting. I wish I could live in a Scottish castle, creaks, leaks, draughts, and all 🙂 And I love the mix of the normal kid stuff (like reading the graphic novel at 2 a.m. 🙂 ) and the magical. Thank you for posting! I hope everything’s going well with you!
Oh! And thank you for the good wishes for Pippin. I know to some non-pet people, our worries seem excessive, but you get it!
Hey, Bryn!
I loved that last line and how perfectly you set it up!
This excerpt is from one of my more recent chapters. In it, Elsie was trying to keep up with Hildreth as they ran to rescue someone from a vampire. But she got sidetracked…..
//////////////////////////////////
The darkened store fronts blended into nameless blurs as Elsie raced after Hildreth. She was determined to keep pace with him, but he outran her, as usual.
Elsie smiled. Oh, no you don’t. You’re not getting away from me that easily, Mr. Hildreth Mayhew. She pushed herself to go faster.
There were barely any people out and about on the sidewalks. A homeless person, bundled up in the world’s poofiest gray blanket, hobbled along the storefronts, pausing every now and then to catch their breath. An androgynous prostitute trompsed to their favorite street corner in thigh-high boots that looked both cheap and expensive. A lovey-dovey couple strolled hand-in-hand, existing solely in their own bliss-filled universe.
None of these people were in Elsie’s way nor were they overly inclined to suddenly jump in her way. So, she was free to run as fast as she wanted.
I will catch up to you.
A shrill shriek pierced the air, clashing horribly with the scream.
Elsie didn’t hesitate. She pursued the shriek to the alley on the left side of the Al’s Go Rhythm shop. She rushed into the alley.
A burly man in a Detroit Tigers tank top and black Bermuda shorts had a young woman with a bad perm pinned against the wall.
She looked over at Elsie and stopped shrieking. She smiled. “A hunter.”
“Like I told you, Bernice: Set the bait, catch a fish.” He released Bernice and turned to Elsie. “So, come here, fish, and let us have a bite.”
“You wish!” Elsie ran at him.
He grinned and extended his claws.
She punched his jaw, snapping his face to the side. Before he could recover in time, she staked him.
He dropped lifeless to the ground.
Bernice didn’t move. She stood there, wide-eyed, whimpering like a lost, injured animal.
Elsie turned to her. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
Bernice’s bad perm swooshed from side to side as she shook her head. “How can I be safe without him? He was my lord. He was showing me how to survive as a vampire.” She looked down at his dead body. “I don’t know what to do now. I have no one else.”
Hey friend! OH MY GOSH…this scene is a banger! Poor Bernice! I love it. Hope your September is off to a good start!
Hey Bryn! Poor Pippen. Glad he’s doing better. Here’s a a scene from the YA horror crossover I’m finishing up. It’s called “The Thin Place.” It’s about two 16-year-old girls, living 85 miles apart, who become telepathically linked after falling into comas during a cataclysm known only as the “Event.” Misty lives with her alcoholic mom, while Dawn lives with her mom and an abusive stepdad in a creepy cult town that’s built on a “thin place” — a wound between worlds. It’s “Stranger Things” meets “Carrie” with a sapphic coming-of-age thread.
Dawn Osborne couldn’t remember the last time she felt happy. If such a time existed, it belonged to a period of her life she thought of as the before. Before Jerry. Before the trailer. Before the small, unsettling town knew her name.
The before was small and golden and a lifetime ago. She and her mom had lived in an apartment back then. It was a small one-bedroom unit they shared, built above a laundromat in a town Dawn barely remembered anymore. The apartment had been poor and sad, but they made it work.
And unlike the trailer, it didn’t hit.
Dawn’s mother, Maggie, had been a different woman in the before. She’d been younger, less tired, and loved to laugh. They would laugh about sharing a bed, about their car that always seemed to be a sparkplug away from a junk yard, and her mom’s complete inability to cook.
She hadn’t laughed since the move.
Dawn had a grandmother in the before, her mom’s mother, who had continued to live in the small cottage where Maggie grew up. She loved to cook, much to Dawn’s relief, and would have Dawn and Maggie over for dinner on weekends.
Dawn’s grandma taught Dawn the one magic thing in her life that survived to this day. After their dinners were over, she would sit down with Dawn in the living room and teach her to knit. Dawn had been five or six at the time, and the needles looked large in her hands, but Dawn loved it. She loved the click of the needles and the way she could make something grow. And she loved that it was the one thing in her life that did what she told it.
In, around, through, her grandma would tell her. There. You made a stitch, baby. You made something out of nothing. That’s the magic of it.
Dawn’s grandma died the winter Dawn turned seven. Her walnut needles were given to Dawn in a shoebox, along with three balls of yarn and a folded note that Dawn couldn’t read yet, so her mom read it to her.
For my Dawn.
Make something out of nothing.
— Gran.
Dawn would keep the note for the rest of her life.
The next spring, her mother met Jerry.
Hi Tom! I read this on Wednesday and I just read it again. 🙂 I love the concept, and your writing style, too (“a sparkplug away from a junkyard,” “Make something out of nothing.”) I think readers are going to love this!
Thanks for the good wishes for Pippin! And I hope everything’s going well with you!
“I’m gongig home.”
“That’s not it, is it? It’s the kiss.”
“It has nothing to do with the kiss.”
“You’re lying and we both know it.”
“Whatever the reason, it doesn’t change things. I have to go. I’ve ordered a taxi. It’ll be here in a moment.
Indira walked to the door, and hefted her tennis bag onto her shoulder.
“Indira, can’t we talk about this?”
“There isn’t time.” Grabbing the handle of her rolling bag, she went through the front door.
Michael followed her, at a loss for something to do, something to say to get her to change her mind.
“What about Kimberly.”
“She knows.”
Michael’s felt his brows raise. “You told her?”
“I wouldn’t leave without letting her know.”
Yet, she hadn’t discussed it with him.
“Kimberly doesn’t need me anymore. She needs you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Despite her skill as a tennis player, she’s still a teenager. You’re her rock and she needs to feel that she doesn’t have to divide her loyalties between us.”
Michael stopped. The taxi arrived and Indira headed for it.
“Stop,” Michael said, his voice stronger than he intended.
Indira turned at the door of the taxi.
“We need to talk about this.”
She came back to where he was standing.
“You need to talk to Kimberly. Assure her that you’re there for her.”
“We could do it together. We should do it together.”
Indira smiled, but shook her head.
“Good bye, Michael. I have to go.”
Then she reached up, encircled his neck and kissed him. Instinctive his arms went around her, plastering her soft body to his. She kissed him long and hard, but he knew it was a goodbye kiss. She pushed back, her eyes watery as she a strangled bye formed on her lips.
He watched as the black taxi drove dove the road, taking her away. She was going out of his life and he could do nothing about it.
Kimberly was his priority. Why hadn’t he seen her need for conformity, for the changes she would perceive?
And now he had to choose one over the other.
Only Indira had chosen for him. Her strong sense of family and what was right gave her direction and she’d chosen to keep him and his granddaughter on a safe emotional ground.
What she didn’t know was that ground was firm for him and Kimberly, but for their relationship it was sinking quicksand.
SHIRLEY! HI! It’s so great to see you here 🙂 And it’s so great to see what you’re working on now! This is such a tender scene with so much emotion. I love it! I hope everything is going well with you!
Hello Bryn, and happy new month!
I’m so sorry about Pippin but glad he’s on the road to recovery. As a dog lover, the news of someone’s canine buddy being ill or struck down with physical ailments gets me all emotional 🐶 😢
When it comes to vulnerabilities in writing practice, I’m able to relate. I tend to beat myself up for putting off my goals, not having enough writing motivation to continue working on my novel projects, or not being able to figure out a way to overcome writer’s block (no matter how hard I push myself even for just five minutes).
If I can’t share the next part of my current extract today, I hope to share this continuation either tomorrow or next month.
Happy writing everyone!
Hi Amy! Ohh, thank you so much for your good thoughts about Pippin. Dogs can be the little lights of our lives, can’t they?
I never want anyone else to struggle with their writing…and at the same time, at least I know I’m not alone, you know? I won’t beat myself up if you don’t. 🙂 I look forward to seeing your next excerpt! Happy writing!
All the best to Pippin! Fur babies hold our hearts in their hands as much as human ones do, right? Here’s an excerpt from my mafia romcom “Mascarpone and Mayhem”.
“Aww, come on Peppe, surely Luca’s got some leeway as the older son?”
Luca pulled away from his father and stood, turning to flash his Uncle Gio a grateful smile. Between his uncle’s teasing and his mother’s scheming, the evening was likely to be an entertaining disaster. And Uncle Enzo hadn’t even arrived yet.
As though Luca had conjured him, Lorenzo Romano, who believed that clothes should make an entrance before their owner did, walked into the living room. Dante liked to call him the Italian Walt “Clyde” Frazier, much to Luca’s amusement, because his flamboyant attire announced his presence before he uttered a word. His current outfit did not disappoint. A velvet royal-blue blazer and matching vest sat over an open-necked gold paisley silk shirt. His pocket square hilariously matched neither, and rings glittered on three fingers, catching the light every time he gestured, which was often.
Luca elbowed Dante, grinning. He nodded at his uncle’s vest pocket. “Twenty says there’s a pocket watch in there, too.”
There was.
“One day,” Enzo said, ignoring his nephew’s teasing as he adjusted his cuffs with great dignity, “you’ll both have the good sense to dress like men who’ve earned the right to be noticed.”
Lorenzo was his brother’s second-in-command, the second son, ‘the spare with flair’, as he liked to call himself. And he was the only person, aside from Luca’s mother, who had absolutely no fear of his older sibling. He’d spent his entire life in Giuseppe’s shadow, but his clothes reflected his personal philosophy: ‘I may be second, but I’ll never be second best.’
“Papà had impeccable taste,” Enzo continued, “and never flaunted his authority. Giuseppe inherited his power. I inherited his style. I’ll let you decide who got the better end of the deal.”
Without acknowledging Luca’s or Dante’s laughter, he turned to the others. “Evening everyone!” he greeted them, making a sweeping bow in Francesca’s direction. “So glad I made it in time. Traffic on I90 was a bitch.”
Yep, his Uncle Enzo, the Romano blessed with no filter, would definitely make the evening memorable. Whether in a good or a bad way remained to be seen. Not even Francesca’s always-beautifully-manicured iron fist could control the train wreck that was her oldest brother-in-law when he was in fine form. And the man was still stone-old sober. Lord help him, but Luca was suddenly looking forward to seeing the theatrics unfold.
Okay, Mascarpone and Mayhem is such a perfect title for a mafia romcom that I am seething with jealousy. 😀 I think “mafia romcom” is a such a brilliant genre mashup, too! I love the excerpt, and the second son philosophy. Thank you for sharing!
And thank you—it’s really true about our fur babies!
Hi Bryn! Happy September!!
I loved your snippet–I laughed and may have slightly jaw-dropped at the very end. lol This is a fun scene!
I want to be the kind of person who wakes up at 5 am to write, so I’m cheering you on for that. And thank you for being open about your writing process. <3 I was thinking similar about me (not writing, ugh) and how I feel like I’m wasting all this time that could be filled with writing, and then someone said, “You know what? It’s not a race. Write the book at whatever pace works for you.” Right now I only have two notebooks that I carry around everywhere, so I can jot my ideas down in the spur of the moment when they hit (and they do). I had every intention of sitting down to write tonight after work, so I could finally submit for WIP Wed again, but had forgotten that I’d already committed to a girls’ craft night with a friend from work (we made little clay ghosties to paint and decoupage at next week’s girls’ movie night). And even though it’s been a really long day and I did not get any writing done, I thought: You know what, I could use this. I could write a scene in my book where the characters try to make something out of clay that just doesn’t end up looking quite the way they want it to at first!
Maybe I’ll write that scene later this weekend. For now, I’ve been sitting too long, so I’ll mark it down in my notebooks. It’s a long weekend, and the fall weather has arrived in my little town this week, which means I’m staying in to enjoy the soft rain and cool breezes by the open window with a cozy blanket. And my notebooks. And I’m trying to get back in to handwriting in notebooks vs. typing on my computer, but it’s been so long since I’ve used those hand muscles for that much writing lol. I’ve got to work out these hand cramps!
Okay–next month. Next month, I promise myself I will have something to submit for WIP Wednesday 🙂
Heyy friend! I appreciate your friend’s advice about writing. For now at least, I’m no longer setting deadlines for myself, since I’m not on contract—I’ll keep working on it and eventually it will be done. 🙂 And sometimes we do need a respite! That craft night sounds like so much fun. I’ve been getting into crafts a little more! I feel like it’s something I don’t have to be perfect at. 🙂
The autumn weather has NOT arrived yet here in Chicago, but it can’t be far away…being Chicago and all! I hope you enjoy the fall and enjoy your writing time!
Sending you a big hug!
d
Ahh, thanks friend! I appreciate you! 💙
Finding time and making things consistent has been the fight I’ve been having oh-so-long in my life on a lot of fronts. I think I’m about to turn a corner soon and find my footing. I track my time usage a little to religiously…now I just need to pair that with sticking to a plan. And like you we have pets, our growing kitties who have vet appointments for next Wednesday. Wishing best of luck with yours. Also thanks for sharing your WIP; having this site I effectively have an accountability-buddy to get me to crank out some words at least each month.
Anyways, this is a scene from my series, The Zoey Chronicles…
These guys weren’t professionals, they were morons.
But like in all too much of Zoey’s life, she was surrounded by them. The Syndicate’s Chevy Tahoe blocked their rear with two of their members, the driver and the front passenger getting out to confront them. In front of Zoey’s car, boxing them in, were four more gunmen in a Nissan Altima, getting out to approach them from the front. It reminded her all too much of the Tollbooth scene from The Godfather. She knew she needed to move fast to avoid that fate. Zoey saw an opportunity.
She floored the front-wheel-drive Ford Taurus into reverse, colliding with the Tahoe and with it’s open doors knocking down and pinning the two rear gunmen beneath their doors. Zoey’s knew her car was rated to survive a 75-mph rear-impact collision and the front wheel drive would be preserved. Even if the men got up and recovered they’d be in the scope again between their own guys on the opposite side, in this bone-headed encounter, making them hesitant to return fire.
Zoey hastily put the car in park. Got out with her trusty Colt 727 Carbine, with an M203 mounted grenade launcher on the forward assembly. She fired one CS tear gas round into the Nissan Sentra causing the guys in front to have a coughing fit.
Joe and Steve, opened fire with their newer M4s, one towards the Sentra and the other to the Tahoe guys who hadn’t yet recovered. Zoey aimed suppressing fire at the four who got out of the Nissan with her selector switched to full auto.
In her second long burst her weapon jammed. Without so much as a beat, she reached behind her into the small of her back, where she had a custom holster for her automatic knife and her multi-tool, practically her third and fourth hands, and cleared the chamber with the multi-tool. And as quickly as you could snap your fingers she was back in the fire-fight.
Lev fired at the two shell-shocked men behind their car from outside the car’s left rear with his sidearm. In the middle back seat Margo could only brace herself with her head down between her legs and arms over her, as the controlled chaos went on around them. In the distance she heard sirens. She barely noticed the horrified onlookers and passers-by.
Chris, you get me. Making time and being consistent is the battle of my life 😭😂 And oh my gosh, I track time a little too religiously, too!
Thanks for posting the excerpt! Zoey is such a badass! I love it that she clears the chamber mid-fight. I hope fall is a really productive writing time for us both.
And thanks for the good wishes about the pup! I hope your kitties have a good vet visit 🙂