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FAR too many WIPs
another meme cuz i need moar carpal tunnel plz
1: Name your ten favourite titles from stories you've written (or, if you're not a writer, just name your ten favourite titles).
we're talking best titles, not necessarily best fics here? I'm terrible with titles. I can only think of three of which I'm especially proud.
1) The Forever Kind. Like how this gives you a hint that isn't fulfilled 'til the end.
2) Fathers' Day. My favorite kinds of titles are those that put a little twist on a common theme - it makes you want to read the fic so you can find out how it differs. And speaking of which:
3) The Game of the Name (flocked). Don't you want to know why it's not the other way around? I do, and I wrote it. :D
2: If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence/paragraph/whatever from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
I've posted snippets from my book before, but here's another one:
~~~
Nicholas fell in love at age 16 at a summer camp for troubled teenagers that was mostly ropes courses and trust falls. He sleepwalked through most of it. But then he saw her and woke up.
Her name was Bree, and she had black eyes and black hair and black lips and fingernails against which her white skin seemed to be pulled tighter than a bedsheet. When he looked at her, she smiled at him, and he couldn't breathe and his shorts were tight and if she hadn't had the voice there to tell him to move, he might have been run down by the biggest boy in the program, a grumpy tough with leathery hands and a permanent scowl from whom running you down was just a taste of things to come.
When he said hi, she said hi back. She had a tongue ring.
He asked her name, even though he knew it already.
"Bree," she said, "but not like the cheese."
That was enough. He was doomed at that moment.
~~~
Here are a couple of other WIPs sitting around on my hard drive...
~~
He would sit there at the edge of the court and tap his foot to the rhythm of the ball-and-sneaker symphony and read his big, thick book with a smile on his face. The shouts and curses never upset him. He never took off his hat. Bean figured he might just be sensitive to the sun. There was no way anyone would wear a thread of clothing they didn't have to on a day like that. Bean only had shorts on 'cause he'd get arrested if he didn't, and he only wore sneakers 'cause otherwise he'd get blisters on his feet. Ditto the socks. He only wore the ring on the chain because his gramma would reach down and bitchslap him from heaven if he took it off.
~~
"That twit daughter of Bob's told me today that Daniel's got a new toy," he said into Maury's mind excitedly. "A little girl who can locate people. Why don't you drive up to New York and make contact with her? She'll be very useful once I'm out of here."
~~
An old boyfriend of mine called the other day. Robert and I had met at university, made eyes over the bunsen burners, and explored our newly discovered sexual orientation on lab tables and in well-hidden library aisles. We didn't so much break up as we did hit our expiration date. The semester was over, we were on to newer things, we had new courses to take and new people to meet. We'd already reached the end of that particular text; it was time to move on from 101 to 102.
~~
(to the tune of Masquerade)
Writer's strike!
Till we get the pay we like,
Writer's strike!
Give us cash
Or your ass will be in reruns.
Writer's strike
Watch your ratings never spike,
Writer's strike...
~~
So now the Prince is underwater, dust and rubble stinging his eyes and cheeks, looking for her. A wooden beam floats by, blocking his vision. He comes up, gasps for air, goes back down again. This time a broken streetlight nearly takes his head off and he can see no more. The water is too muddy with dirt and debris. It's brown-gray and nearly opaque. Brett calls out into the empty, dead lake that Buckingham's courtyard has become.
~~
The guards at the border had been exacting, demanding he dismount and strip his armor, show the royal decree from the emperor that authorized his admittance into the land. At the border station, he'd seen a number of small children running about, untamed, and at least a half-dozen new mothers suckling infants in crude tents. The three sentries had been the only men in the encampment. It had smacked of chaos, and Aric had been surprised. It seemed Betarchian children were as wild as Betarchian plains, and Aric feared for ever finding civilization.
~~
Rachel peered off into the distance. The street was a bus-only lane that snaked around the park to the tour group entrance in the back. During the day, it was crowded with vanliners and Greyhounds. Students and even the occasional adventurous senior group swarmed down this path chattering and looking up at the Gray Monster, pointing and laughing and anticipating the stomach-turning fun to come. They talked about it like it was some sort of benevolent dictator. It was "awesome" or "frightening" or "the greatest thing ever." And in a way it was exactly that. In that it slowly ruined people's lives as it put on a good show for its visitors.
~~
"Nobody can escape this trap," he said. "It's foolproof." He pulled himself away from my shoulders. "I know because I designed it."
1: Name your ten favourite titles from stories you've written (or, if you're not a writer, just name your ten favourite titles).
we're talking best titles, not necessarily best fics here? I'm terrible with titles. I can only think of three of which I'm especially proud.
1) The Forever Kind. Like how this gives you a hint that isn't fulfilled 'til the end.
2) Fathers' Day. My favorite kinds of titles are those that put a little twist on a common theme - it makes you want to read the fic so you can find out how it differs. And speaking of which:
3) The Game of the Name (flocked). Don't you want to know why it's not the other way around? I do, and I wrote it. :D
2: If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence/paragraph/whatever from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
I've posted snippets from my book before, but here's another one:
~~~
Nicholas fell in love at age 16 at a summer camp for troubled teenagers that was mostly ropes courses and trust falls. He sleepwalked through most of it. But then he saw her and woke up.
Her name was Bree, and she had black eyes and black hair and black lips and fingernails against which her white skin seemed to be pulled tighter than a bedsheet. When he looked at her, she smiled at him, and he couldn't breathe and his shorts were tight and if she hadn't had the voice there to tell him to move, he might have been run down by the biggest boy in the program, a grumpy tough with leathery hands and a permanent scowl from whom running you down was just a taste of things to come.
When he said hi, she said hi back. She had a tongue ring.
He asked her name, even though he knew it already.
"Bree," she said, "but not like the cheese."
That was enough. He was doomed at that moment.
~~~
Here are a couple of other WIPs sitting around on my hard drive...
~~
He would sit there at the edge of the court and tap his foot to the rhythm of the ball-and-sneaker symphony and read his big, thick book with a smile on his face. The shouts and curses never upset him. He never took off his hat. Bean figured he might just be sensitive to the sun. There was no way anyone would wear a thread of clothing they didn't have to on a day like that. Bean only had shorts on 'cause he'd get arrested if he didn't, and he only wore sneakers 'cause otherwise he'd get blisters on his feet. Ditto the socks. He only wore the ring on the chain because his gramma would reach down and bitchslap him from heaven if he took it off.
~~
"That twit daughter of Bob's told me today that Daniel's got a new toy," he said into Maury's mind excitedly. "A little girl who can locate people. Why don't you drive up to New York and make contact with her? She'll be very useful once I'm out of here."
~~
An old boyfriend of mine called the other day. Robert and I had met at university, made eyes over the bunsen burners, and explored our newly discovered sexual orientation on lab tables and in well-hidden library aisles. We didn't so much break up as we did hit our expiration date. The semester was over, we were on to newer things, we had new courses to take and new people to meet. We'd already reached the end of that particular text; it was time to move on from 101 to 102.
~~
(to the tune of Masquerade)
Writer's strike!
Till we get the pay we like,
Writer's strike!
Give us cash
Or your ass will be in reruns.
Writer's strike
Watch your ratings never spike,
Writer's strike...
~~
So now the Prince is underwater, dust and rubble stinging his eyes and cheeks, looking for her. A wooden beam floats by, blocking his vision. He comes up, gasps for air, goes back down again. This time a broken streetlight nearly takes his head off and he can see no more. The water is too muddy with dirt and debris. It's brown-gray and nearly opaque. Brett calls out into the empty, dead lake that Buckingham's courtyard has become.
~~
The guards at the border had been exacting, demanding he dismount and strip his armor, show the royal decree from the emperor that authorized his admittance into the land. At the border station, he'd seen a number of small children running about, untamed, and at least a half-dozen new mothers suckling infants in crude tents. The three sentries had been the only men in the encampment. It had smacked of chaos, and Aric had been surprised. It seemed Betarchian children were as wild as Betarchian plains, and Aric feared for ever finding civilization.
~~
Rachel peered off into the distance. The street was a bus-only lane that snaked around the park to the tour group entrance in the back. During the day, it was crowded with vanliners and Greyhounds. Students and even the occasional adventurous senior group swarmed down this path chattering and looking up at the Gray Monster, pointing and laughing and anticipating the stomach-turning fun to come. They talked about it like it was some sort of benevolent dictator. It was "awesome" or "frightening" or "the greatest thing ever." And in a way it was exactly that. In that it slowly ruined people's lives as it put on a good show for its visitors.
~~
"Nobody can escape this trap," he said. "It's foolproof." He pulled himself away from my shoulders. "I know because I designed it."