Managed a meager thousand words on the rewrite of “Just a Game” last week—fighting through a fair amount of inertia—but even that little bit felt pretty good. It’s always that way when I return to writing after a break.
Of course, getting back in harness means I once again have to wrestle with the whole “making it not suck” thing, which, you know, ain’t easy.
Yeah, it’s always something.
Anyway, it occurs to me that even though I’m classifying this as a rewrite, almost all of it is new material. So I suppose I can fire up Magic Meter again:
And what the hell, here’s a snippet:
Lucas dug the trowel into the south end zone.
He had to push hard; the ground wasn’t frozen yet, but it was close. He leaned on the trowel, working it in slowly, trying not to be too destructive of the painted grass, lest a groundskeeper notice the damage and get curious. He needed only a small, surgical hole for this; no need for hackwork.
Besides, it felt worse than mere vandalism. It felt sacrilegious, as if he were profaning holy ground. Which, in a sense, he was. This place, this stadium, was a temple erected by and glorifying powerhouse college football. The mighty Stampede—a stalwart and storied program, long on tradition, always a player on the national scene, the pride of Illinois. Eighty thousand congregants worshiped here on autumn Saturdays, Lucas not the least among them. His father had instilled that much in him, if nothing else.
Not that he thought this would actually work, of course. A man who had dedicated his life to the cause of science, Lucas Frazier didn’t believe in curses. He was doing this strictly for his father—even though his father would be none the wiser whether he did it or not. No, he had made a promise, and he would keep it, however ridiculous it might be.
Besides, it couldn’t hurt.
No updates for Write Club.
Back to making it not suck.