Muddled through the rest of the galley proof, then turned my attention back to Apocalypse Picture Presents. I still haven’t sorted the mess in Act Two, but I managed to weasel out some word count, anyway. Only about 2.5 K, but hey, that’s better than nothing. Magic Meter agrees:
“But wait,” you say. “You were talking about how major this part of the rewrite was, and how you still didn’t quite know how to handle it. How did you get any word count out of that, Rotundo? How? In the name of God, how?”
Well, see, it was like this: I saw that a later chapter was pretty self-contained, off in its own little subplot. So I just skipped over there, blithely ignoring all the rest of the issues, and voila! Word count, like magic.
And now for my next trick: figuring out the rest of the story. Which would be good, considering that we’re deep into the second draft here.
A small car, a navy blue hatchback, flashed by on the road, slowed, stopped. Eddie got low and froze, fearing he’d been spotted.
It was an electric model, judging by its silence. Two men in dark uniforms got out—Hills security. The car drove on.
Both men carried rifles. They spoke to each other briefly, gesturing and pointing, then headed in opposite directions, heading into the bush. One was quickly lost to Eddie’s sight. The other came his way.
No updates for Write Club.
OK, here we go. Nothing up my sleeve . . .
No, seriously. There’s nothing up my sleeve. Wish me luck.