So, now that My Town Mondays are underway, and what with Clare's and my looming deadlines (self-imposed, but grinding nonetheless), I thought I'd start something silly and fun: Two Sentence Tuesdays.
Every Tuesday, I am going to post two sentences I've written and two sentences I've read. I encourage you all to join in the fun. C'mon...it's just two sentences. And they don't have to be two particularly outstanding sentences, either. They can be bits you wrote for a novel, or words from an email, just plunk down something you wrote this week.
And, heck, if we get enough sentences together, we could have a story, and maybe, just maybe, we might achieve Nan's status...Agatha nomination! Yay, Nan!
In my push toward Nanliness, this week I wrote:
Even sitting on the train, however, Callie could not relax, and when a transit officer entered their car, seemingly intent on memorizing the faces of all the passengers, panic welled up in her chest. Mac had seated himself to her right so he could hide his ruined cheek by facing her, but the window behind their seats acted as a mirror--should the office glance at it, he’d notice the unmistakable scar.This week I read:
Prepare for battle.That's from my sister-in-law's book, Something New.
The wedding guest list is often the place where all interested parties--from brides to grooms to mothers to guests to the adult spokespeople for squalling infants--first cross swords.
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6 comments:
Hi Laura,
I'm game.
What is it about being a writer that compels me to remind you this is from a first draft:
"Carrie pssed the time sipping cups of Barry's Tea made from a big tin of tea bags they'd brought home from Ireland last summer. She shored up the second cup with a shot of Bushmills and willed herself to call no one, do nothing until four-thirty."
This is what I read. It is from Patt Morrison's story "Morocco Junction 90210" which is published in Los Angeles Noir.
"As I said, in Beverly Hills, the police don't talk. The victims don't talk."
Terrie
Count me in. I'll pot mine here this week since I'm already a day late, but I'll post on my blog next Tuesday.
A bit of dialogue from my in progress humor novel - Plundered Booty ...
The boss said, “The hell I don’t. I could send y'all into a whorehouse with a pocket full of hundreds, and you still wouldn't get your peckers wet.”
And from a grievance arbitration I am currently reading hear at work.
For any grievances filed at the National or Local level concerning the
2001 version of the MS-47, no other remedy, except for the payment in
Item #5 above, including but not limited to any claim for lost work hours,
overtime, payment for bypassed routes, work scheduling and/or out-of schedule
premiums, and/or custodial staffing levels, occurring during the
intervening period between December 31, 2001 and the date 30 days
following the date of the signing of this agreement shall be given. Any
such grievance(s) whose remedy period is between December 31, 2001
and the date 30 days following the date of the signing of this agreement
shall be administratively closed.
Yes, it is that tedious to read through.
I wrote these bits of genius yesterday:
She frowned as she turned in her seat, but she didn’t see anything. Checking the other spectator’s faces, she could tell Mike didn’t see anything either and Father Terry was relieved the phenomenon was happening in someone else’s presence.
And I read these from The Affected Provincial's blog:
After all, to merely aim for "elegant" or "timeless" out of fear isn't necessarily a safe bet on The Carpet Perilous: One can just as easily look like a bland yet impeccable dumbass who drank the "Classic Hollywood" Kool-Aid.
Travis- many sympathies, for us, I mean.
I'm reading a book about Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, but I wasn't cruel enough to post any of it.
Sheesh! You'll put an eye out with that stuff.
Hmm, Terrie, that Carrie is my kind of gal!
Good grief, Travis! How do you stand it?
Cool, Clare...now I want to know what the phenomenon is!
Joining in late-late-late, but here goes.
This is the beginning of a 99-word drabble I just wrote for a contest:
"The young brave shaded his eyes against the bright sun. Up on the plateau, wind ruffled his hair, dropping hints of activity from the east―wheels creaking, horses whinnying, children laughing."
The prompt is a head shot of a young American Indian man looking at something in the distance.
This is a quote from Robert Frost that I read yesterday:
"Good writing is good speaking caught alive. The speaking tones are all there on the printed page."
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