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So there I was, reading the Writer Beware blog, when I read this:
And I was instantly inspired.
My friends, inspiration is all around us. And you don't even have to hear a scam agent speak at a writers' conference to get it.
Crap? Of course it is! It's first draft. But it's over a page in manuscript format, which means I'm well on the way to a nice, satisfying 6,000 word (24 pages in manuscript format) short story.
Race ya to the end!
April 29 was apparently Say Nice Things About Michele Glance Rooney Day, because encomiums are offered by yet another lone-post blog. No book sale this time, but Super Writer is happy to describe how she (or he) Was Motivated By Michele Glance Rooney. "I had the good fortune of seeing Michele Glance Rooney speak at a writer's convention, and I feel newly determined and dedicated to finishing my book project...I am half-way through chapter 8 and I've figured out how the hero is finally going to excape [sic] from the wrath of Mr. Bunstable." (No, no, not Mr. Bunstable! Please...I'll do anything...AIEEEEEE!)
And I was instantly inspired.
Bunstable. Willard Bunstable. The name alone was enough to bring a strong man to his knees. Now Edwin sat in his rented room -- rented by the week, semi-furnished -- and awaited the coming of Willard Bunstable.
A footstep on the stair. A floorboard creaked in the hall. A knock sounded on the cracked door. Edwin opened it timorously. The words came out in a rush:
"Mr. Bunstable! I have it. I mean I'll have it. Thursday. All of the money. I swear!"
Then he noticed that the person standing in the door wasn't wearing a greasy yellow-plaid suit. Wasn't wearing a sneer. Wasn't, in fact, a man. It was flame-haired Jasmine, the smiling minx from the corner donut shop.
"Bunstable problems?" she asked. "Lots of folks have them 'round here. How'd you like to get out of his debt ... permanently?"
For the first time in a month hope suffused Edwin's features. He waved his hand in a gesture of welcome, sweeping her into the room. She walked to the sofa by the window and sat, crossing her legs high up, and leaned back. Edwin shut the door and turned to face her.
"You mean it? Permanently?"
She nodded her head in assent. "Depends on how bad you want it."
"Anything!"
"We'll see." Her smile turned predatory. "We'll see...."
She opened her handbag and pulled out a Colt .45 automatic. She laid the pistol on the couch beside her.
"You aren't asking me to kill Bunstable, are you?"
"No. Nothing that easy." She stared into Edwin's eyes. "But Bunstable will be out of your life. Forever."
A footstep on the stair. A floorboard creaked in the hall. A knock sounded on the cracked door. Edwin opened it timorously. The words came out in a rush:
"Mr. Bunstable! I have it. I mean I'll have it. Thursday. All of the money. I swear!"
Then he noticed that the person standing in the door wasn't wearing a greasy yellow-plaid suit. Wasn't wearing a sneer. Wasn't, in fact, a man. It was flame-haired Jasmine, the smiling minx from the corner donut shop.
"Bunstable problems?" she asked. "Lots of folks have them 'round here. How'd you like to get out of his debt ... permanently?"
For the first time in a month hope suffused Edwin's features. He waved his hand in a gesture of welcome, sweeping her into the room. She walked to the sofa by the window and sat, crossing her legs high up, and leaned back. Edwin shut the door and turned to face her.
"You mean it? Permanently?"
She nodded her head in assent. "Depends on how bad you want it."
"Anything!"
"We'll see." Her smile turned predatory. "We'll see...."
She opened her handbag and pulled out a Colt .45 automatic. She laid the pistol on the couch beside her.
"You aren't asking me to kill Bunstable, are you?"
"No. Nothing that easy." She stared into Edwin's eyes. "But Bunstable will be out of your life. Forever."
My friends, inspiration is all around us. And you don't even have to hear a scam agent speak at a writers' conference to get it.
Crap? Of course it is! It's first draft. But it's over a page in manuscript format, which means I'm well on the way to a nice, satisfying 6,000 word (24 pages in manuscript format) short story.
Race ya to the end!
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