The Great Write Way, Act Three: Where's the gun?
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Flash Fiction, based on Natter convo, with the opening stolen from PC:
Prescriptivist
The little orphan looked up hopefully at the billionaire. "You are not going to use 'hopefully' wrong, are you?" she asked. "Because then, I would have to kill you."
The billionaire smiled at her. "Hopefully I wo-gurgle", he said, the end of his sentence cut off by an ice-pick in the throat.
"Dammit, that is how I became an orphan in the first place" said the orphan.
Most grammarians believe the way the billionaire used the word "hopefully" is just fine, but they probably are better off not saying so to the orphan.
First query for Cog has been fired off.
Readying second query which includes first five pages, so I'm double (well more like octo) checking them. I should fire that off later tonight. That agent has expressed an interest in steampunk and YA.
That will be it for this volley. The next one has shown in interest in streampunk, and YA with female protagonists.
Don't worry, I won't be giving query by query updates. It's just exciting and terrifying to get started.
Typo, that's hilarious!
Go, Gud! Break a...pen.
The arthritis is not conducive to holding a pen for hours these days; I write primarily on a keyboard. The stuff still works, my voice is still clear, but . . .
The curve of the letters spoke to me, the shape of the words themselves became almost a part of the story. The name of the characters in cursive and ink showed a side of their personality that isn't as apparent in type.
When I first saw a story of mine in type, in "print", they became more real, less purely mine. They put on their outside clothes and went to see the world. The original handwritten pages are still in a drawer, like baby pictures of my children.
INK
The slow emerging scrolls of ink on flesh:
more burn than penetration — good.
Always feared the penetration, but I like the burn.
“You’ve good skin,” says the man as his slim, assured fingers
(Strange, their delicacy on such a hewn-from-ironwood block of humanity)
pull my pale flesh taut.
Inkfire strikes; my intentions rise to the surface of my skin
coalesce...
take full form...
No longer hidden from myself –
nor from anyone I choose to let see.
I can hide them
if need be.
But not from me...
Never from me.
Thanks for the well wishes.
When someone says a short synopsis, how long is that? My readied synopsis is two pages single spaced or about 1,200 words. That doesn't seem long, but maybe it is. 'Short' is sort of vague.
I meant to answer this the other day, Gud, and got distracted. Why are you single-spacing your synopsis, first?
I always defined short as three pages, but definitely double-spaced. It really depends on the editor.
~
Ink:
It was the pen. He was sure of it.
Nothing had ever come so quickly or so freely with a pencil, or using the typewriter. He wouldn’t touch the computer anymore—his brain froze when he opened the lid of the laptop, a biological blue screen.
But the pen was perfect. Just the right size, black ink just thick enough, never smearing. And every sentence written with it was a revelation.
He knew it would dry up, though. And so he hoarded his words with the ink, saving them both against the pen’s eventual demise.
His notebook lies waiting, silent.
To go with this week's theme, a truck overturned on I-95 and spilled its contents - ink. Gallons and gallons of ink.
