WIP meme!
From 
nightdog_barks: Post three whole paragraphs from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIP. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1. Elementary. Possible later complicated Watson/Holmes. Mostly about Holmes, though, and his memories of London and the way he still lives there, in his head.
This is how you come to know a city. By breathing stale rubbery subway air and stumbling down oily alleyways and falling to your knees on hot pavement.
"The London Underground map was revolutionary," he says to Joan as they rattle along somewhere between 59th and Grand Central. He can't tell if she's really interested or just humouring him. Or maybe listening because she wants to ferret out some fucking detail about his career as a junkie. His life has been defined by arcane interests and dangerous preoccupations. Eight years old, reeling off an exhaustive list of Doctor Who episodes to a boy in the same set as he at school, the words going dry in his throat when he realises that the boy isn't at all interested.
He can see that map in his head, the ninety-degree angles, the broad canary-yellow sweep of the Circle line. Take the Kensington branch to your father's London house, all cigar smoke and whiskey and vague disappointment. Take the Northern Line to the time you said you'd never shoot it and the time you ate your words. Change to the East London line for a 48 hour hold. Please mind the gap.
The West Wing. AU, mostly Bartlet-centric with some good old-fashioned Jed/Leo friendship (maybe venturing into UST territory later?). An AU where Jed is an alcoholic and Jed has MS. Yes, indeed, I went there. Overly ambitious and I really like it but it's accelerated into a wall. Halp.
He's safe enough for the Blue Dog Democrats but during the debate he lets the sharp side of himself show. That's what he thinks of it as: like a razor blade beneath his skin.
His campaigners call this part of him "The Real Bartlet," and he aches to tell them that the real Bartlet spent five years taking his first drink of the day in the driver's seat of his car, hunched over, a bottle of vodka from the glovebox cold in his hands, burning at the back of his throat.
The real Bartlet told bedtime stories with mouthwash on his breath to cover the smell (it didn't, it never does, the smell oozes out of your skin). The real Bartlet called his best friend from a motel parking lot in eastern Vermont when he was too cowardly to go on and too afraid to stop. His hands were shaking and his throat was almost too dry to talk and he had a pocket full of pills.
All of this, everything else, is just window dressing.
Plus three paragraphs of original writing behind f-lock, here.
nightdog_barks: Post three whole paragraphs from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIP. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1. Elementary. Possible later complicated Watson/Holmes. Mostly about Holmes, though, and his memories of London and the way he still lives there, in his head.
This is how you come to know a city. By breathing stale rubbery subway air and stumbling down oily alleyways and falling to your knees on hot pavement.
"The London Underground map was revolutionary," he says to Joan as they rattle along somewhere between 59th and Grand Central. He can't tell if she's really interested or just humouring him. Or maybe listening because she wants to ferret out some fucking detail about his career as a junkie. His life has been defined by arcane interests and dangerous preoccupations. Eight years old, reeling off an exhaustive list of Doctor Who episodes to a boy in the same set as he at school, the words going dry in his throat when he realises that the boy isn't at all interested.
He can see that map in his head, the ninety-degree angles, the broad canary-yellow sweep of the Circle line. Take the Kensington branch to your father's London house, all cigar smoke and whiskey and vague disappointment. Take the Northern Line to the time you said you'd never shoot it and the time you ate your words. Change to the East London line for a 48 hour hold. Please mind the gap.
The West Wing. AU, mostly Bartlet-centric with some good old-fashioned Jed/Leo friendship (maybe venturing into UST territory later?). An AU where Jed is an alcoholic and Jed has MS. Yes, indeed, I went there. Overly ambitious and I really like it but it's accelerated into a wall. Halp.
He's safe enough for the Blue Dog Democrats but during the debate he lets the sharp side of himself show. That's what he thinks of it as: like a razor blade beneath his skin.
His campaigners call this part of him "The Real Bartlet," and he aches to tell them that the real Bartlet spent five years taking his first drink of the day in the driver's seat of his car, hunched over, a bottle of vodka from the glovebox cold in his hands, burning at the back of his throat.
The real Bartlet told bedtime stories with mouthwash on his breath to cover the smell (it didn't, it never does, the smell oozes out of your skin). The real Bartlet called his best friend from a motel parking lot in eastern Vermont when he was too cowardly to go on and too afraid to stop. His hands were shaking and his throat was almost too dry to talk and he had a pocket full of pills.
All of this, everything else, is just window dressing.
Plus three paragraphs of original writing behind f-lock, here.