So. Another 3100 words on Apocalypse Pictures Presents. Magic Meter puts it this way:
When last we chatted, I was pretty frustrated with the way my ending kept evading me. I even whined a little about my muse’s unavailability. Somebody must have told her what I was saying, because she finally phoned from Belize. The conversation went a little like this:
Muse: What’s this crap you’ve been saying about me on your blog, Rotundo?
Me: Oh. Well. Um . . . sorry about that. But I was frustrated.
Muse: About what?
Me: Well, I’m at the climax of this novel, and I still don’t know how it ends. How can you leave me hanging like that?
Muse: Dude. You need to get a grip.
Me: Get a grip? Do you have any idea how stressful it is to be so close to the end of a big project, only to find you don’t know how to finish it?
Muse: You don’t know how this thing ends? Seriously? Jeez, I thought it was so obvious that you wouldn’t even need my help. I mean, you’ve only been setting it up since chapter two.
Me: Since chapter two? What are you—oh, wait. You mean . . . ?
Muse: Of course.
Me: Oh. Well. Um . . . I guess that was kinda obvious.
Muse: Ya think? Jeez, get a grip, Rotundo. And stop talking about me behind my back, wouldya?
So I guess I know where we’re headed now. And as always, the answer was right there in front of me. You’d think I would learn.
We’re pretty close to the end now. Another two chapters or so ought to wrap it up. Another 10K words, tops. Probably not even that much.
Your snippet:
He paused, looked to her for a reaction. Susan gave him her best poker face. Let him think he’d figured it out. She doubted highly that anyone in his right mind would guess at what they’d actually been up to.
“After your father’s murder, you had nowhere to go, no one to take you in. Until you learned about the Rattlesnakes and the Mouseketeers. Then you saw an angle, and you made an arrangement with this madman who calls himself Jimmie. You and your little band of miscreants—I’m guessing they’re Mouseketeers, too”—he nodded toward Terry and Santiago—“sneak into the Hills and . . . well, you do what you’ve done, while the Mouseketeers occupy Hollywood. In return, Jimmie lets you join his gang of savages. Am I close?”
Susan glanced away, knowing it would make her look guilty. It was an acting challenge, she realized. Ross Jergens had already written the role for her in his head; she needed only to play it. Her performance might save lives—even if none of them would be her own. She focused her attention inward, using the cues from Jergens to disappear into the part. With all the recent changes to the script, she’d had some opportunity to practice her ad lib skills.
No updates for Write Club.
Onward.
