Matthew S. Rotundo's Pixeltown

About 6700 words on Apocalypse Pictures Presents.  Magic Meter drops in to report as follows:

I’ve finally hit it—that part of this rewrite I’ve been most dreading.  And as I feared, it was like running into a wall.  Didn’t stop me from charging headlong into it, though.  Ah, the glamorous life of the writer.

Some significant redrafting needs to occur here.  I know where I want to go, and I’m pretty sure it’s the right thing for this story, but certain logistical issues remain, and that’s gonna slow me down something considerable.  Also, it’s time for me to do tax stuff, and I have some Writing Related Program Activities to which I must needs attend.  That will slow me down even more.

So next week’s progress report might not be all that dazzling.  Just trying to manage expectations here.  Don’t want anyone to be too disappointed.  See how considerate I am?

Right.  Your snippet:

Susan got to her feet, glaring.  “Knock it off, Gil.  You’re not fooling anybody with this bullshit.  You know perfectly well that the situation has changed now.  A lot of lives are at stake, and outside of this Colonel Berkowitz and Ross Jergens and their pals, we’re the only ones who know.  The only ones.”  She glanced around at the others.  “We have to do something.”

“That’s the kind of thinking that could get us all killed.”

“Oh, that’s considerate of you.  Is that what you were thinking when they shot Johnny?”

A surge of anger operated his mouth for him:  “I thought you said Johnny’s death was your fault.”

Susan’s eyes widened; she came up on her toes, every muscle seeming to tense, visible even from across the room.  Gil had no doubt she would have belted him if he’d been within striking distance.

No updates for Write Club.

And I’m off.

Logged some 10K worth of rewrite on Apocalypse Pictures Presents.  Magic Meter marks the moment:

Now that’s what I’m talking about.  I finally busted through pages at something that resembles a respectable pace.  I so totally rock.

Before I get too cocky, though, I have to remind myself that the hardest part of the rewrite is still ahead.  The good news here is that a few new ideas have occurred, correcting missteps from the first draft that seem obvious in retrospect.  The corrections, however, do raise certain plot questions that I haven’t yet resolved.  But I’ll figure them out.  Probably.  I hope.  See last sentence of the previous paragraph.

Your snippet:

Susan’s mouth fell open.  “An Animate?  This?”  She extended a hand toward the corpse that stood before them.

Gil shared her disbelief.  What little he had seen of Animates before he’d fled the Hills had been crude hackwork compared to what stood before him.  The woman had an utterly natural posture, not too straight, not too stiff.  When she spoke, the words came out easily.  Even her inflections were spot-on.  For a moment, Gil suspected the woman might be lying to him.  Hesitantly, he reached for her, touched her wrist.  The skin was ice cold.  She gave him a look that said, See?  Satisfied?

He was.

“Yes, this,” Gil said.  Susan retreated a step, her lip curled.  She looked as if she might vomit.

He addressed the Animate:  “Wow.  You guys have gotten pretty good at this.  She could pass for human.”

Again, the delay before responding.  “That’s the idea,” she said.

No updates for Write Club.

Rocking on . . .

Notched another 5300 words on the Apocalypse Picture Presents rewrite.  Magic Meter stands thus:

Approaching the end of Act One.  So far, I’ve retooled my protagonist, ret-conned in an important plot point, and cut an entire chapter.  It’s been slow going, as readers of these reports already know.  But the hardest part of the rewrite is looming just ahead in Act Two.  I’ve been dreading it, dragging my heels.  And yet, somehow, none of my avoidance behaviors have made it go away.  Funny, that.  You’d think I’d learn.

Anyway, I have a few ideas about this rough patch.  Don’t know if they’ll work, but then, I never do.

Your snippet:

The team got to work, strapping on their backpacks, bedrolls, and weapons.  Susan walked over to Gil.  “So—about ten miles, would you say?”

“As the crow flies, yeah.  But the terrain won’t be easy.  If we get to Hollywood before sundown, I’ll be surprised.”

“No need to rush.  I’ll take point.”

“Naturally.”

She flashed a strained smile and went to join the others.

He watched her, thinking again of last night’s . . . confrontation?  Conversation?  He didn’t know how to categorize it, and that left him out of sorts, distracted.  That was no good, not for today.

Maybe he should have handled it differently.  Maybe he should have cracked down hard on her.  Or passed it off with a laugh.  What would Cameron or Kubrick have done?

“Dumb,” he said under his breath.  “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”  He went back to the SUV to retrieve his gear.

No updates for Write Club.

No way to go but forward.