Fellow G.H. Literary Agency mate, LK Gardner-Griffie, challenged me to post some lines from my current WIP (Work In Progress). Blarg. This always stresses me out, because they are just that works in progress. They aren’t edited or fully thought out yet… They are just ideas floating around in space. Again I say: Blarg.
However, I took on the challenge. Here are the rules:
- Provide the link back to the post by the person who nominated you.
- Write a little about your work-in-progress.
- Give the first sentences of the first three chapters of your current WIP.
- Nominate four other writers for the challenge.
So I am going to share a little bit from The A,B, C’s of Dee. This is a novel that chronically a woman, named Dee, and th bet that her friend puts her up to: To date 26 men, in alphabetical order, in one year.
First sentences of the work in progress chapters (gulp):
It’s ten minutes to five and my underwear has already climbed up my ass more times than people have climbed Mt. Rushmore. I’d love to blame Victoria’s Secret for selling me faulty ‘3 for $25.00′ panties, but let’s be honest, I’m the one trying to cram my 40 year old fanny into underwear meant for people who don’t eat food. They just looked so good on the stark, white half-mannequin butt, that I thought they would totally cover the square footage of my backside. I was grossly mistaken.
I wake up to the feeling of blankets being ripped off me.
“Shit. What’s going on?” I open my eyes and instantly squint at the light gorging my retinas. I’m in Gail’s apartment. I can tell by the color palate in the room. Everything in her place is red, black or white. Colors that all seem to make my head pound even harder than it is.
“You wake up now? I clean room.” The thick accent tells me it’s one of the housekeepers Gail keeps. The frown on the woman’s face informs me that she is not happy with me upsetting the natural flow of her cleaning day, so I do the best I can to get out of the room as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Gail left me in my cloths, that smell vaguely of vomit, which must be why my morning breath is currently so pleasant. Note to self: Never drink Vespers again. Scratch that. Never drink again.
Looking in the mirror I wipe off the third shade of lipstick of the evening. “Why does every color I try make me look like a whore?”
“Because you are about to become one.”
Neil walks in and kisses me on the head.
I smack him on the ass as he reaches for hair gel.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Neil purses his lips. Why does he get to have the perfect colored rose lips and lashes to die for?
“Honey, you are about to go on your third date in as many days. You keep this up you’ll have Gail beat.”
So there you have it. Judge away. Blah!
I hereby nominate the following people to endure this misery: (You’re welcome):
Amy Miles (you knew that was coming);
RJ Keller (SHE knew that was coming);
Julie Cassar (hehe); and
Elizabeth Loraine. (Oh yes I did!)