Drafting of Apocalypse Pictures Presents, my seventh novel, has begun. Yes, really. And here's your friend and mine, Magic Meter, to tell you a little more:
Total word count is just a guess at this point. I begin despite doubts and fears that I won't be able to pull it off this time. A murky middle awaits me, and the ending is a total mystery. In other words, situation normal.
Here's a snippet, for your delectation:
Susan stepped closer to Gil, flashed a strained smile. In a low voice, she said, "It's me, isn't it?"
Gil stopped drinking from his bottle in mid-swig and wiped his mouth. "What?"
"It's OK. You can say it. I'm the reason the scene's not working, right?"
Gil studied her face, so intent and earnest, and reflected once again on how little he knew about directing. The technical aspects were easy–once one got past niggling details like securing enough supplies to stave off dehydration and starvation, getting permission to shoot in locations overseen by heavily armed and paranoid xenophobes, and working in conditions that could charitably be called primitive, all to make a movie that very few in the country even had the equipment to view properly. But none of Gil's skills with cameras, scripts, or automatic weapons could help him deal with an amateur actress wrestling with her own insecurities.
No updates for Write Club.
I'm out.
