Monday, March 2

Whatcha workin' on?



It's Sunday afternoon. We are covered in lots of fluffy new snow that makes the first of March look like December 25 should. I've been writing today, though I'm about to give it up because my mind seems to be of the marshmallow-type consistency that snow looks like. 

          Since I seen to have nothing to say, I thought I'd share a couple of paragraphs from my work in progress. A little lead-in: I've discovered in my own writing and the favorite stuff that I read, a woman is often finding a piece of herself, maybe for the 10th time, whether it's because of an empty nest, a divorce, or just a rotten-to-the-very-last-minute day. In this part of a favorite scene, Molly Linden is finding one of those pieces.

Sometimes, she hadn’t liked Julian very much.
          The thought made her smile as she dug into a drawer for her aunt’s rulers. Even though Sadie hadn’t quilted since arthritis swelled and stiffened her knuckles, the house was ample evidence that she never threw anything away. And there they were, under a Simplicity pattern that had cost seventy-five cents new and a paper-clipped-together collection of recipes cut from magazines. There were scissors of all sizes, but no rotary cutters. No cutting mats.

          A few minutes later, with the work table cleared and her glasses balanced halfway down her nose, Molly was stacking and cutting. The black-handled shears were so dull, she could only cut two pieces at a time, and she scowled as her thumb began to ache. But she kept cutting. Kept stacking. Shards of light sprinkled the room.

          So, what are you working on? What couple of paragraphs finds a deep place inside you?

12 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Thank you! It's Liz today (though I'm not smart enough to work the bio thingy at the end), and I'm glad you liked it.

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  2. oooh, interesting!! I need to finish up a synopsis for my next project ... and get some scene ideas down on paper, too. And do about 15 loads of vacation laundry. :)

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  3. I love the picture you included. It looks so quite and peaceful.

    I liked that excerpt because my mom's a quilter. She also has arthritis, but she soldiers on. :)

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    Replies
    1. Thanks, Chrys. It is peaceful, but I'll be glad when it's all spring green! :-) Good for your mom!

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  4. I love this story, Liz! Older heroines get me every time! And what a cool picture! It looks a lot like my back yard! ;-) Here's my excerpt from the current WIP, which currently has the very sexy working title of Book 4 WOWB. ;-)

    The car was still there.

    Idiot.

    Did he really think a black Lincoln Town Car with heavily tinted windows wasn’t going to be noticed in this neighborhood? He may as well be sitting there in a gilded carriage with six white horses—a freak show she wouldn’t have put past him.

    Asshole.

    Sarah Everett sighed as she locked the door to La Belle Femme and turned the sign over to CLOSED.

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  5. I love this story, Liz! Older heroines get me every time! And what a cool picture! It looks a lot like my back yard! ;-) Here's my excerpt from the current WIP, which currently has the very sexy working title of Book 4 WOWB. ;-)

    The car was still there.

    Idiot.

    Did he really think a black Lincoln Town Car with heavily tinted windows wasn’t going to be noticed in this neighborhood? He may as well be sitting there in a gilded carriage with six white horses—a freak show she wouldn’t have put past him.

    Asshole.

    Sarah Everett sighed as she locked the door to La Belle Femme and turned the sign over to CLOSED.

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    Replies
    1. Love the comparison of the Lincoln Town Car to the Gilded Carriage. Genius!

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  6. Liz--I can't wait to read more of this. But, then, you are one of my faves :)

    Here's my excerpt from my new WIP--tentatively titled Summer Goddess,

    Everyone has a sliding doors moment in their past—some more significant than others. Musing yet again, Tess turned off the movie and gave a deep sigh. Sometimes she liked to consider her personal sliding doors, but to do so meant—

    “Mom!” Nine-year-old Ethan raced into the kitchen, her phone clutched in his bony fist. “Someone’s calling you.”

    Meant giving up Ethan. That’s what her sliding door would change. And after almost losing him a couple of times over the past few years, she inherently knew the cost. She smiled at her son. “You know you can answer it.”

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