Friday shopping list

  • Pretzels
  • Lime juice
  • Rum
  • Ice cream

Maybe an exciting cocktail, maybe just a chilled out evening.  The night is full of possibilities.


It’s fun to be bad

If there’s one thing more fun than writing awesome stories, it’s occasionally indulging in the worst excesses and writing awesomely bad stories.  A group of us are putting all of the most clichéd, badly formed, and just plain wrong techniques into as few words as we can, and gathering them together as a way of leading by (horrific) example and illustrating why sometimes, the rules really are there to help.

Here’s my effort: Passion in the Tundra

Hopping mad

I have a small problem today. I really want to take part in the StoryTime Blog Hop, and link submissions are due tomorrow.


The rules say the story has to be PG rated, which is fine except that A – I don’t have a story ready yet to submit, and B – telling my muse no graphic violence or sex is like telling her not to think about a pink elephant.  She wants to be helpful, but I’m not sure if she’ll actually co-operate enough to produce a story in time.  The ideas I have on the backburner are kind of borderline.  They’re probably just on the safe side of being not too unsuitable in terms of actual content, but I’m not sure the concepts are something I’d be comfortable deliberately putting in front of kids.

The correct thing is probably to throw my name into the hat, and get some good practice at writing to a spec and a deadline.  The right thing to do is probably to avoid committing to something I’m uncertain about delivering on and letting my friends down.

*boing boing*

The trouble with muses

I did some writing today, on “The Girl in the Black Lace Dress”, otherwise known as the flash-fiction-that’s-not-so-flash-any-more and is actually about 3,350 words and not quite done yet, although the ending is looming.

It would have been finished by now, but it my muse decided to wander into racy territory today.  There was always going to be a certain amount of that, just because of what the story is about, but apparently I wasn’t going to get away with lip service.  (No pun intended 😀 )  Cue me, on my tiny tablet and fold-up Bluetooth keyboard, trying to write this steamy scene in the café at work, while my co-workers milled around.

And then, just as we were getting into it, my muse got spooked and ran off, leaving me sitting there slightly dazed and hoping no-one had been reading over my shoulder.

I have a feeling tomorrow will be the day I finish that story.

Not much of a clue what I’m going to do with it then; I couldn’t quite say even what genre it belongs to.  It’s probably a bit steamy for straight-up modern fantasy, but I would imagine it’s too tame for the dedicated erotica markets, and it’s clearly far too long for any kind of flash fiction at this stage.  I’ll have to muse on that some more.


I can’t words today

The day job is really getting to me at the moment.  It’s starting to feel thin and unreal compared to what’s going on inside my head, and dredging up the energy to do productive things and make progress on a project which frankly doesn’t excite me any more is wearing me out.

When I’m this tired I start to lose words.  Not exactly non-verbal, but maybe deverbalised.  Which is not a good frame of mind for writing in.

Luckily, I wordsed a bit yesterday, so I will share this for your amusement and delectification.

The Musician

He was a large man, and it was a small guitar. It would have looked like a child’s toy in anyone’s hands, but as he hunched over it and began to move his fingers softly across the strings, it looked as though it had been created in that moment, just for him.

The notes were low at first, melancholy, but with a touch of mischief. They sang their longing to the waiting room, and promised to satisfy that longing. The musician became more animated, and the sound grew in volume. Larger and larger it grew, filling that tiny space until it pressed in on our ears and squeezed our chests. Almost unbearably, the pitch climbed higher and dragged us helplessly along with it. Then before we could catch out breaths, it dropped away and left us suspended in mid air, grasping at the fading chords, not wanting to come back to earth.

Getting words down

Realised a couple of things today about my NaNoWriMo project.

One, the scene in my novel that I’m stuck on is a fight scene.  I’ve never been in an actual fight in my life, so no wonder I’m having difficulty getting into the flow of it.

Two, I feel a lot better doing flash fiction for NaNoWriMo than working on the novel.  Somehow it feels easier to fix.  If I plough through and write a short story that then needs a lot of revising, it’s still a pretty short job.  Bashing out an entire novel that has loose ends and needs major editing still leaves a lot of work to be done.  I guess I’m afraid of ruining the novel by writing it wrong and then not being able to fix it.