Last Friday, I posted a snippet of
Up Wish Creek's first chapter over at Killer Chicks. Last night, I revised that bit.
Here's what you saw last Friday:
It had been about a month since
the shitstorm blew through and I turned a portion of North Florida into glass. And there I was sitting in my library, trying
to interrogate a book. My ex-lover, who
betrayed me, was nowhere to be found. Not
that I’d had time to look. Which was
probably for the best because I was so ready to kick his olive-brown ass. The
last time I saw my dog he’d been transformed back into a gorgeous genie, and he
was panting after the only surviving twin goddess of a long-extinct Nubian
tribe. My conniving former best friend
was still a bitch—literally—and sleeping curled up on the rug in front of the
fireplace. But the more things change…
Well, let’s just say things were working the way they’d always worked. Life as a genie is long, but hey, unless you really work at it, it’s not boring.
Sometimes I wish I put forth the
effort.
“Did the book tell you anything
yet?” The only constant in my life, the right-proper Basil Hadresham shouted
from another room. He was my business
partner, decades-long friend, and genie extraordinaire. And he’d spent the past thirty some odd years
keeping my life on an even keel. Even if
he did have a bad habit of bellowing through my home like a kid who’s too lazy
to grab a snack from the kitchen.
“I heard you,” I shouted back
because I was too lazy. “And the answer is no. Did you get anything
out of that damn dog yet?”
Basil entered my library with the
dog in question trailing behind him. “The
bitch is being bloody difficult.”
She will tell you nothing, appeared across the blank page of the
book in front of me. Just as you will learn nothing from me.
“And here I was thinking you’d
want to brag a little,” I said back to what was, in reality, a former genie
who’d chosen to become an Efreet. Since
genies can’t apply the death penalty the way Efreet can, Amun got sentenced to
spending a good long while as a smart-mouth, uptight, pain in my ass book. I’d taken a bit of shit for going off-script
and making him reading material instead of the family pet, but, hey, he
deserved it.
Here's what it looks like now:
About a month had passed since
the shitstorm blew through and I turned part of North Florida into glass. My ex-lover, who betrayed me, couldn’t be
found anywhere. Not that I’d bothered to
look. Probably the best thing for both
of us, because I would kick his olive-brown ass, if I ever caught up to him. The
last time I saw my dog he’d been transformed back into a gorgeous genie, and he
was panting after the only surviving twin goddess of a long-extinct Nubian
tribe. My conniving, former best friend
was still a bitch—literally—and spending her nights curled up on the rug in
front of my fireplace. And there I was
sitting in my library, trying to interrogate a book.
The more things change… Well,
let’s just say things were working the way they’d always worked. Which was to say, dysfunctional. With extra funk. Life as a genie is long, but hey, unless you really work at it, it’s not boring.
Sometimes I wish I put forth the
effort.
The only stable constant in my
life, the right-proper Basil Hadresham shouted from another room. “Did the book tell you anything yet?” My
business partner, decades-long friend, and genie extraordinaire had spent the
past thirty some odd years keeping my life on an even keel. Even if he did have a bad habit of bellowing
through my home like a kid who’s too lazy to grab a snack from the kitchen.
“I heard you,” I shouted back
because I was too lazy. “And the answer is no.”
Basil entered my library with a
scrawny, beige pooch trailing behind him.
He looked like a forty-something British barrister, all tweed-covered and
balding with a paunch that would make any Cornish wife proud. In reality, he looked like a young and sexy
Michael York, heavy on the Cockney and light on the stodgy. But we all wear the
costumes we must to hide who we really are.
Hell, I made myself look about
twenty years older than I really was.
And I would age a little every day until I faked my own death and started
over with a brand new face.
“Did you get anything out of that
damn dog yet?” I asked.
Basil laced his fingers over his
ample belly. “The bitch is being bloody difficult.”
She will tell you nothing, appeared across the blank page of the
book in front of me. As you will learn nothing from me.
“And here I was thinking you’d
want to brag a little,” I replied to what was, in reality, a former genie who’d
chosen to become an Efreet. Since genies
can’t apply the death penalty the way Efreet can, Amun got sentenced to
spending a good long while as a smart-mouth, uptight, pain-in-my-ass book. I’d taken quite a bit of guff for going
off-script and transforming him into reading material instead of the family
pet, but, hey, he got what he deserved.
And that's what writers do. You know, when they aren't writing new words. I spent 3 hours last night doing stuff like that to the first 30 pages. Today, I will try to get the rest of the pages done. As long as my eyes and my will to live hold out. LOL
That will probably be as close to out the door as you can get. Unless my editor looks at that and tells me something's wrong somewhere. Fingers crossed.
Now, back into the editing cave.
