Wednesday, 27 July 2011

Write or Die

Not as drastic as it sounds! I mean this thing  - which I find very useful for giving me the much needed kick up the pants to get my brain into writing mode. Last night I shut myself in the spare room and managed 1600 words in 3 20 minute sessions.

Much needed too. Now I have my little Greek lads on the move again and the end of the story is in sight.  I'll be glad when it is done. I've put in a theme that I need to run past someone so they can whack it with a shovel if necessary. I don't know if a] it works or b] it would work but I've been far to tentative about it and should describe it in all its squelchy glory or c] what was the question again?

Just for the hell of it - here's a snippet of something completely unrelated to what I'm working on from a time when I had nothing to do apart from pretend to be Georgette Heyer on crack:

The large room had once been a place of splendour, a suitable setting for the refined pursuits of elegant lords and ladies with powdered hair and paint and patches upon their faces. Now its few remaining beauties were obscured by the poor light and drifting clouds of blue smoke from the pipes and cigarillos of the players at the tables. It was hot, very hot, and the air was thick with fumes of wine, candle grease and harsh tobacco.
Sir Aubrey Stanton-Rivers, but a month past his twenty-first birthday and newly come both to his inheritance and its attendant responsibilities, crowed gleefully as he counted up his tricks.
“Waiter, another bottle,” he cried. “My luck’s turned at last. Stick with me, Cholmondeley, my boy, and I’ll make your fortune!”
The red-faced young subaltern opposite just grinned and continued to shuffle the deck.
“Another game?” Aubrey suggested. His coat was off, his neckcloth was on the floor and his blond curls were wildly dishevelled. With his wide-set blue eyes and ingenuous grin he looked like a youthful seraph that had strayed into an antechamber of Hell and found it much to his taste.
“Dammit, you’re too lucky for me,” one of his companions grumbled. “I’m not having you make Chum’s fortune at the expense of mine. I’m for the dice table. Coming, Charles?”
The other man grunted and drained his glass and they both disappeared into the howling throng at the other end of the room. Aubrey gave a crack of laughter.
“You’ll play. Won’t you, Chum?”
“Of course. Your luck never lasts,” Chum pointed out. “Besides, once the drink is in the sense is out and here comes our third bottle.” He grinned and placed the deck squarely upon the table between them.
“I’ll cut with you,” Aubrey offered. “Your grey hack against my chestnut.”
“Oh no,” Cholmondeley shook his head, “not that ewe-necked nag, Put up something worth having for pity’s sake.”
Aubrey laughed, Chum’s affection for his grey was well known. He scribbled a few words onto a piece of paper and passed it to his friend.
“There’s my stake,” he declared, “take it or leave it.”
Cholmondeley shouted with laughter.
“I’ll take it by all means. You go first …Oh, very good Aubrey…But not quite good enough. I’ll keep this,” he waved the piece of paper, “next to my heart.”

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