I'm on a roll with FI. The beginning is shaping up nicely and my advance reader (Jenna) has been pretty happy with the results so far. That said, I still have a ways to go before I'm satisfied. Of course, once the beginning is addressed, I'll need to tuck into the last 3/4ths of the book. It's not going to be pretty, but at least I feel rejeuvenated. Maybe this high will carry me through to the end.
I've set a quasi-deadline for the opening chapters. Next week. LOL. Who knows, it could happen. I have readers waiting, so I better get crackin'.
I'm still putting together my playlist. It's coming along...slowly. LOL. I find that I'm not necessarily "inspired" by certain songs -- as least not in regards to a specific scene. That whole "hear a song and write a scene" thing just doesn't seem to be my bag. What I do find is that certain songs start my brain churning and ideas seem to come more readily when I'm listening to them. I have no idea why. My brain is weird. This has been established by now, yes?
The latest additions, and don't you DARE laugh! They show my age.
The first is 'Mercenary' by the Go-Go's. *blink*
I have no idea why, but when this song cranks through my iPod, story ideas start flowing. The lyrics don't necessarily pertain to the book itself...well, maybe in a distant way...but the fact that it's helping is just plain ole' weird.
And don't you dare make fun of me for liking the Go-Go's! You know you wanted to have The Beat when you were a kid. We all did.
Oh...love the clothes, love the dancing...love the solos. MMMM, the 80's. Alas, no Mercenary...but just as good.
The second is 'Hook' by Blues Traveler.
I've always loved this song and it seems to be sparking ideas. That's doubly awesome for me. :)
Know what's made of even more awesome? The fact that I recognize the guy on the couch -- he hosted Remote Control. Good Gawd, I'm old.
In celebration, I think it's time for a little teaser... hmm. The first page perhaps?
Excerpt from FAKING IT (c) 2009
I’ve always known my boobs would be my downfall. There hasn’t been a day since my mom returned home with my first training bra—a size B, when I was 11!—that I haven’t wished the damn things would just fall off. But I must admit, some days they do have their advantages.
Others? Not so much.
On this particular day, I wanted nothing more than to get off work so I could lounge on my couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. To say it had been a sh!t day would be an understatement. I was tired, sweaty, and not a little pissed off at life in general. Color me happy when John McCormick picked that day, of all days, to sidle up to me out of the shadows and ask me to go for a little ride. I wanted to tell him no. Hell, I wanted to tell him to f@ck off, but when duty called, I answered. I’m a professional after all, albeit a grumpy one.
My problems began when I slipped back inside the locker room, using the excuse that I had forgotten my cigarettes, and discovered my pants didn’t have any pockets. I stood in a stinking bathroom stall, mini-recorder in hand, and cursed at myself for being unprepared.
Regardless, I knew I couldn’t use this little snafu as an excuse.
Left with no other option, I did the only thing I could do. I jammed the recorder into the hollow between my breasts and prayed like hell that my bra would hold the small device in place. When I returned to McCormick, the weight and chill of the recorder against my skin, I immediately regretted my hasty decision. The man’s eyes began to drill holes into my chest at a distance of fifty feet, and they hadn’t strayed since.
“You drive,” he said, flicking his glance up to my face before dropping them back down to my chest.
I stifled my knee-jerk response and brushed past him without a word. When I was sure he couldn’t see, I rubbed the heel of my hand between my breasts, making sure the recorder was nice and snug in its hidey hole. It appeared secure enough, and I relaxed a notch—still on alert, but feeling more in control and prepared.
I’m such an idiot.
Not a minute after I parked my car down a deserted dirt road a few miles from the plant, the damn thing began to inch its way upward. It looked and felt like I was growing a third boob in the center of my chest.
Happy writing everyone!