I'm finishing projects that I started but have had no time to finish because non-writer stuff is extremely time consuming.
I'm no longer doing non-writer stuff. Feels so freaking good to say that. You have no idea!
For at least the rest of this year I will be writing, talking writing, and hosting A Writer's Plot - without any interruptions from the business side of writing. Finally freedom to write!! Which is one of those really important things, you know, when you're a writer.
So the last two days have been spent reacquainting myself with a set of kiwi characters and a mystery set in Upper Hutt. I had never really had the chance to like these characters - I'd tried on and off but didn't get far.
Two days and a re-vamp of one character to use some recent research... and a new name for him too, because I never liked Obadiah.
It's the shortest novel I've ever written - coming in finished (as in story beginning to end, not as in polished, shiny and ready for whatever I decide to do with it) at under 65k. But I suspect now that I'm in the mood and have time to play with the characters and write scenes, add scenes, tweak personalities, it may grow a little bit. I think it grew about 3k in the last 24 hours. So, there's a chance...
This is what may or may not be the first page:
Rain hammered the windows. I lay listening. Something woke me and it wasn’t the rain. Under a rumble of thunder I heard a knock. And then another. Two more followed in close succession and in increasing loudness. The display on the clock by my bed glowed in the dark.
Three in the morning and someone was banging on my front door.
That wasn’t good. I rolled out of bed, and peered out the window. No police cars outside. Probably not bad news then.
A big part of me wanted to ignore it but the banging was getting annoying.
I shoved my arms in my dressing gown, tied the belt and hurried down the stairs. The security lighting was on. A dark shape bashed the glass again.
“Hold your horses!”
“Hurry up Ronnie,” a snappish voice replied.
I twisted the lock and the door handle. Donald spilled over the doorstep and dripped onto the hall carpet.
“Why?” I asked, locking the door behind him and flipping the outside lights off.
“I was in the area. It’s late. I’m tired,” he said. “Spare room made up?”
“Where’s your key?”
“I left it here the other day,” he replied, lifting a set of keys from the bowl on the table near the front door.
“You’re welcome,” I called after him as he disappeared upstairs. “And you smell like a brewery.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll talk,” he replied and shut the spare room door.
I muttered unflattering things about Donald on my way back to bed.
And this may or not be the first page of the next chapter:
The mysterious American.
Romeo and I watched from the living room window as a tallish light brown haired man opened and closed the front gate then walked up the path. I liked that he shut the gate. So many people stomp up the path leaving the gate wide open. Hello, it clearly says a greyhound lives here. Greyhounds run. Mine does not always have his ears on. Feet yes, ears no.
“That must be Benjamin,” I said to the dog. “He looks like someone.” Romeo wagged his tail in response. I touched his head with my palm. “Sit,” I said.
I smiled. Yes, Greyhounds can sit.
A quiet knock at the door caused Romeo to lift his ears. “Stay,” I said and headed for the front door.
He knocked again. I twisted the knob on the lock and turned the handle at the same time.
“Benjamin?” He was tallish, a little over six two, light-brown haired, blue-eyed, square jawed, and clean shaven. Donald would say he was ruggedly handsome in a doable way.
Yes, he is as gay as that sounds.
In this case, Donald would be right.
“Ms Tracey,” he replied with a quick smile.
He definitely looked like someone.
“Come in.” I stood aside and let him into the hallway, then pointed to the living room door. “Go through, you don’t mind dogs do you?”
He hesitated at the closed door for just a second before turning the door knob. “No, as long as the dog doesn’t mind me.”
“Guess we’ll see won’t we?” I followed Benjamin into the room.
Romeo was still sitting, and still waiting. “Good boy,” I told him, making eye contact. The dog stood and stretched, then meandered over for a pat. Meander is a bit of a misnomer; he took two strides and covered half the floor space in the living room.
This is what I'm working on at the moment.
A Veronica Tracey Mystery.