Progress Report, in which I praise the writing gods

Back from Writers of the Future. Details on the week are forthcoming, but first, let’s talk word count.

Today, you lucky people get two Magic Meters and two snippets. This first one is a holdover from last week’s exciting installment, just to make the current tally on Wet Work official:

Here’s the snippet I didn’t get around to posting last week:

"You don’t think much of us, do you?" Brother Thomas said. "Of the Brotherhood of the Sun."

"You–" Emily stopped herself from making a silly and pointless denial. "No, I guess I don’t."

"We defend the helpless–the Walkers, as you would call them–against the Unseen. Is that such a bad thing? So deserving of your scorn?"

"Defend the helpless? Really?" Emily leaned forward. "Let me tell you a little secret, Brother Thomas: when I was Stalker, you guys weren’t much more than an annoyance. I’m sure the Unseen see you as even less than that."


And just for fun, here’s a bonus Magic Meter for my 24-hour story written at the Writers of the Future workshop, a piece titled "The Hills:"

I’m tickled with this one. There must be something egregiously wrong with it. I suppose I’ll find out in the rewrite.

Want a taste?

"You don’t belong here," he said.

She looked up from the menu and studied him for a long moment, and he knew he had blundered. Pastor Cameron would never approve of him talking to customers that way. Good thing he was out of earshot, standing at the bar, frowning over some scraps of paper.

"I . . . ah . . . I didn’t mean–I mean, you don’t . . . look like you’re from around here." His voice trailed off, barely audible, even to himself. Only by sheer force of will did he keep himself from bolting.

Of course, her steady gaze did its part to rivet Eddie McConnell where he stood, too.

He’d meant no offense, but she did look out of place. It wasn’t her clothes, so much–she wore an outfit of red and gray rags that hid the contours of her body, not uncommon in the ruins of Hollywood. She had dark brown skin, high cheekbones, and straight black hair that shimmered in the low light. The hair itself looked well tended, clean and kempt, which was odd enough. But stranger still was the way she held herself, her bearing. Her every movement seemed graceful and measured. She had none of the twitchiness, the wariness, that he’d grown so accustomed to seeing since the war, since the Fall. She looked around the dump that was Micelei’s as if she owned the place, or presided over it.

She said, "Neither do you."

The Writers of the Future experience in sum: two tons of awesome. And the award itself is friggin’ gorgeous.

In case you’re thinking it’s all wine and roses from here on out, here are a couple of Write Club updates that came in while I was in LA:

A personal note from Neo-opsis. Response time–two and a half months.

And a form reject from an agent on a novel query.

Not to worry. It’s just the writing gods, making sure I don’t get a big head or anything. All praise the writing gods!

Gotta get in the wind . . .

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