Nanowrimo again
Another quick update. As off last night I have 17187 words, some of which will have to go as they don't do much but add to the word count. BUT they were quite fun to write.
The story is tentatively called "The Bones of our Fathers". I googled it and there's nothing else with that title other than a Men's Rights Activist page on Facebook and I'm not too worried about the two being confused. The story has also informed me that instead of being the little standalone comedy short I thought I was writing, it is in fact the first part of a series of seven interlinked comedy novellas about the relationships of a group of gay men in a small country town each of which more or less standalone, but contribute a bit to an overall plot. Some of the stories are already partially written and some are already planned. It's a nice thought, anyway.
Because it's nice to have a proper beginning to a project, here are the first few paragraphs:
Mal supposed that she was gorgeous. Forever legs in tight jeans emphasised by those stupid Ugg Boots, a tailored blouse clinging to, to his eyes, impossible breasts, fine flyaway blonde locks floating on the breeze like a shampoo advert and a pretty face currently obscured by the camera she was holding to record the event. Yes Mrs Gaskell was, probably, gorgeous. And the reason Mal suspected this was from the hungry wistful expressions of the faces of the men standing around him on this Godforsaken hillside, listening to Mr Gaskell drone on about what an asset this development would be to the community, while this lovely trophy wife half his age drifted around recording the event for posterity.
"Shouldn’t be allowed.”
Mal looked over his shoulder at a heavy set man in a hard hat who was staring at Mrs Gaskell as though he could eat her with a spoon. “God, look at that arse."
"Oh, yeah I am," muttered the younger taller man beside him and Mal saw with utter shock that he wasn't looking at the girl. The young man caught Mal's eye and gave him a huge white grin before letting one eyelid droop in a wink. Mal looked away hurriedly, not quite able to believe it.
"Rob," the older man warned, "don't frighten the archaeologist."
The story is tentatively called "The Bones of our Fathers". I googled it and there's nothing else with that title other than a Men's Rights Activist page on Facebook and I'm not too worried about the two being confused. The story has also informed me that instead of being the little standalone comedy short I thought I was writing, it is in fact the first part of a series of seven interlinked comedy novellas about the relationships of a group of gay men in a small country town each of which more or less standalone, but contribute a bit to an overall plot. Some of the stories are already partially written and some are already planned. It's a nice thought, anyway.
Because it's nice to have a proper beginning to a project, here are the first few paragraphs:
Mal supposed that she was gorgeous. Forever legs in tight jeans emphasised by those stupid Ugg Boots, a tailored blouse clinging to, to his eyes, impossible breasts, fine flyaway blonde locks floating on the breeze like a shampoo advert and a pretty face currently obscured by the camera she was holding to record the event. Yes Mrs Gaskell was, probably, gorgeous. And the reason Mal suspected this was from the hungry wistful expressions of the faces of the men standing around him on this Godforsaken hillside, listening to Mr Gaskell drone on about what an asset this development would be to the community, while this lovely trophy wife half his age drifted around recording the event for posterity.
"Shouldn’t be allowed.”
Mal looked over his shoulder at a heavy set man in a hard hat who was staring at Mrs Gaskell as though he could eat her with a spoon. “God, look at that arse."
"Oh, yeah I am," muttered the younger taller man beside him and Mal saw with utter shock that he wasn't looking at the girl. The young man caught Mal's eye and gave him a huge white grin before letting one eyelid droop in a wink. Mal looked away hurriedly, not quite able to believe it.
"Rob," the older man warned, "don't frighten the archaeologist."