t whimper
I hate writing a synopsis.
Among other things, it's so damn hard to avoid Repeated Word Syndrome. I'm running out of synonyms for "capture" and "flee" (such activities playing a prominent part in my plot). And I just caught myself using "refuse" three times in the same brief PARAGRAPH. The antagonist makes the protagonist an offer he believes the protagonist can't refuse, the protagonist scathingly refuses, and the antagonist gives him a night to think about it; if he still refuses in the morning, he'll be executed.
ARGH.
Anyone up for beta-ing a synopsis? I'm planning to enter the Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest, science fiction/fantasy category with this puppy (synopsis plus opening chapters, up to 28 pages total), so I'd like to get a few more eyes on it to see if it makes sense and sells the story as something you'd like to read more of.
I'm open. And for the kind of stuff you are writing, I'm part of your audience too. I love alternate history. And a period/location I don't know a lot about, so I'm a good test of whether you are expecting too much of your audience.
And yes I know it is a synopsis, not the book.
Two for the road.
Just Gretel
(I'm white-fonting this one to preserve -t's sensibilities towards cookie jars)
The cookie jar shattered against the wall, black and white pieces pinging off the counters and appliances, crumbs of oatmeal and raisins pattering to the floor in a rain of false hopes and memories.
He'd surprised her. San Diego was a big city, a desert and a mountain range away from where she'd grown up. No trail for him to follow, she'd thought. Face and form changed, metamorphosized, she was nearly unrecognizable even to herself.
She could come back, he'd said, if she gave the baby up for adoption. His words: an ultimatum; but she'd gotten in the parting shot.
The Condemned Man's Last Words
He always had to have the last word. She wanted steak; he insisted on chicken. When she'd cooked the chicken, he'd complained it was dry, why didn't they have steak?
The next night she cooked filet mignon. It tasted funny, he said, as he scraped the peppercorn crust off (she'd recreated the meal he'd ordered last Valentine's Day.)
"What do you want, specifically?" she asked.
New York Strip, medium-rare with sautéed mushrooms, garlic-mashed potatoes, dinner rolls and roasted asparagus.
She had a baked potato. Gritty, he complained, as he ate his garlic-mashed, with its shot of arsenic.
Thanks for the warning, Sail. You are on fire, drabble-wise!
Heh. It's amazing what one can do when forced to sit in a meeting that has absolutely nothing to do with what you're working on.
Frst drabble in forever.
Parting Shot
You put me on a pedestal only to climb up and knock me off. You threw me aside for others and then begged me back, claiming they never measured up. I took it all in, thinking this was the way of love.
Until the day I left the girl behind and embraced the woman ahead. As I walked away, I noticed a doll on the ground: The blonde hair and buxom chest all molded into an ideal form. I picked it up and threw it to you.
“Here. A woman you can actually handle.”
And I walked out the door.
Shot: a photograph at the point where city becomes river, and back again. The bridge is stage, it is medium, it is tripod. The timer is cheap because the camera is cheap and so it captures them a moment too soon. So the bridge captures solid: cobbles and arch, a light post. And they capture motion. They are a blur, a single form, moving quickly together, to that coming together that will be the first photograph, the one that will begin the rest. It has so much weight on it, this photograph. They think they will think of it for years to come as The Photo. And in it, they will be moving towards each other. Then they will stop and smile, as you do when you first meet someone and take a photo with them. They will clutch hands briefly, and begin to walk back to retrieve the camera. Their fingers, which will rejoin again and again, are, briefly, with the air around them vibrant and blurred, parting.
