Progress on my Blood Blister

I'm taking the first of it for critique from my writer's group. It is coming along, in a foul bubbling sense. I'm focusing specifically on my schizo-heroic panhandler, really developing back story and a chilly damp atmosphere, that I can spot with islands of mold, and dump on buckets of bile and flies. It's all about the fun.

We'll see what they say.

My goal of 1500 words a day, went out the window for the three day weekend–as it has a tendency to do when no one else has to work. I'm so easily distracted that when my wife is home, I rarely bother to write. Blog? That's another story.

Current distractions: Rome premiered: "Where are my Children!" Verenous shouted. To which Erastes responded, "I f**ked 'em, killed 'em and threw 'em in the river." Harsh right? And, it was such a small stain. We've got the Psych marathon on Tivo–cute show. My best friend's birthday at the casino. The dogs need baths.


Joe said…
I actually like Max Barry's 200-word-a-day maximum. That's what, two-thirds of a page? I think Nora Roberts writes a book a week, but she probably has somebody else bathing her dogs.
Mark Henry said…
No doubt a captured tribe of Peruvian hill people, shackled and clanging as they bring piles of sandwiches to her bed. Where can we find servants? I want servants!

I got a boost from my writing group, not a boost, really, more of a boot… to the ass. God bless 'em. But my interest in the new project was reinvigorated, so I won't have to kill anyone, luckily.

Kick butt on your rewrites. Tick Tock. No pressure.