(to-do/writing/personal) Sundays are days of rest. Really.

Even when you don’t get home until 3:30 am from a ghost investigation – it’s still a day of rest.  A day to catch up on Once Upon a Time (my new favorite show, next to Castle and Bones), write, do laundry and dishes, and just renew myself.  I really do like this new schedule – I feel more alive.  And the words are coming again.

The words are coming because of a few things: I’m doing the daily pages every day at 750words.com, I’m taking the time to do things like watching TV again (a few selected shows only), and I’m reading again.  I just finished The Between, by LJ Cohen, and now I’m reading Hard Magic, by Laura Anne Gilman.  Because of that, and the fact that I’m on the right schedule, I’m getting words.

Which is good, because I’ve set myself a goal of finishing the first draft of Forgotten, the book I’m currently working on.  I haven’t talked much about it here, and I won’t for a while, but it’s a totally different world than the Horseman books.  Ghost stories, in fact.  I love ghost stories, and now, I’m free to write the books I want to read.  So, first draft of Forgotten is on deadline for May 30th.

I need to post a honey do list for this year, but I’ll do that later.  The big things on it, though, are Forgotten, the first draft of Schrodinger (whatever the title will be) and getting both Spells and Swashbucklers and Last Rites onto the shelves.  And, in non-writing stuff, I need to redesign the website.  Badly.

But today, I have just a few things to do:

- vacuum the living room

- empty the drainboard

- empty the sink

- Daily pages

- 500 words  on Forgotten

- Update the calendar in the living room

 

Lots to do today, and daylight, as they say, is a-burnin’.  Good news is, I don’t have to get up at 6 am tomorrow.

Originally published at The words of Valerie Griswold-Ford. You can comment here or there.

(metrics) Bloody ghosts and car crashes

Starting word count: 2326

Ending word count: 2903

New words: 577

Starting lines:

He leaned on his cane, looking down at me, wry amusement and pain warring in his blue eyes. I didn’t recognize him, but he apparently recognized me. “Really, Sapph,” he continued, not bothering to extend a hand to me as I just gaped at him. “You’re getting wet.”

Ending lines:

She’d been pretty, once. Now, with half her face covered by a bloody curtain of hair and her teeshirt in scorched shreds, her right arm hanging uselessly at her side, she was a horror.

Darling:

I snorted. “I don’t believe in angels. Or demons, or anything else like that.” My fingers curled around the door handle. I didn’t want to turn my back on him, but I had to see what, if anything, was still inside.

“It doesn’t really matter if you believe, Sapph.” He walked over to the other side of the car, not noticing the slick mud. “Their existence has very little to do with anyone’s belief.”

++

You know, I’m not writing a zombie story, but damn, that ending line sort of looks like I am.

 

Originally published at The words of Valerie Griswold-Ford. You can comment here or there.