Holiday-related activities cut into productivity, as they are wont to do, but I notched nearly 4K on the Apocalypse Pictures Presents rewrite. Magic Meter stands thus:
This takes me into chapter 3, which I’m busily recasting in a different POV—an occasionally frustrating endeavor, but one that I’m sure is the right move. I wouldn’t bother otherwise. It’s not like I enjoy making work for myself, you know.
Some fruit of my recent labor:
Santiago, Gil, and she dug Johnny Cascio’s grave on the hill’s western slope, beneath the shade of a battered old sequoia, its trunk deeply scarred by some old lightning strike that had wounded but not killed it. Ferns surrounded its base. The soil was rich and moist. The mingled scents of earth and pine filled Susan’s senses as she dug, almost pleasant enough to make her forget the reason for the hole. She kept an eye on Gil as she worked. He winced in pain with every shovelful he threw, lingering effects of his injuries from Delano. He dug steadily, machinelike, his gaze faraway. If Johnny’s death had plunged him into despair, he gave no sign of it.
The others would be watching Gil, too, she knew, wondering what they would do now that the production’s leading man was dead.
Write Club update: A tier two bounce from Interzone. Response time, 6 days.
Onward.
