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Developmental Beta Readers Needed
Project Starbound is in its third draft and is now ready for a fresh set of eyes! If you
are willing to read a long, novel length original work (currently 72,031 words)
are story-savvy and pay attention to character arc, setting, plot, and continuity
feel like you make too many comments on other people's work (spoiler: no, you don't)
are comfortable with saying, “This isn’t working, and here’s why”
have never read the manuscript before
can work in google docs
are okay with the story’s content warnings (see below)
then I need you to help me!
the sunday six
post six sentences from your WIP.
Queen Constantina had been beautiful as a young woman, but maturity made her arresting. Her age rested easily on fine bones, her even, golden toned skin soft on a face that laughed, and frowned, and lived. A fortune of diamonds, topaz, rubies, and emeralds draped over lean shoulders and curved collarbones, the gems cut as autumn leaves. Golden oak leaves crowned her upswept black curls, threads of silver glinting without apology.
She reached out to touch my medals, lifting each one and feeling the profile of her own face.
From Project Starbound, an original fantasy novel
Writing Wednesday
No writing this week.
No Editing this week.
I completed an outline draft of Project Blackwing, and I’m putting the scene cards into Scrivener now. I still have research left to do on the story, but I’m jotting down the scenes and thinking about the pace and stuff.
I read The Long Good Bye by Raymond Chandler. I liked it. I need to read more. and I think that Project Blackwing will be in first person, because that’s a hallmark of noir, and Dean’s in my head telling me the story that way. Which means a lot of readers won’t look at it twice because 1st is an unpopular pov-- but if it’s not 1st person, it would have to be second, and I think people hate that even more, haha.
Still not feeling like I can actually write anything worth reading. I’m off duty until the 1st anyway.
I kinda want to post the next scene of starbound. but I think i will resist.
Show Your Work: November
The first ~1000 words of Project Starbound:
Pigeons made soothing company during paperwork. They perched on the sill of the tall window that was the best feature of my office, come to roost for the night. Wingbeats sounded through the loose panes in the window and I paused in my patient log-writing to listen to their throaty calls, lulled by their sounds until my mailbox lid clacked shut.
The cart! I jumped up to intercept the clerk, but my chair back hit the wall at the wrong angle. By the time I freed myself they were gone around the corner, leaving only the odor of bad news behind.
An evening memo lay coiled in my mailbox. The once beloved sweet, gassy smell of barrel-printing from my days at medical school was now the odor of tightened belts and making do. What did they cut this time? Hospital laundry? No lunch for doctors, since the cold lunch they started serving wasn't a big enough economy?
I grabbed the page and hissed as the edge sliced my little finger.
The Sunday Six
from Project Starbound:
Beauregard Veteran's was a building in half-mourning, fashioned from gray stones and black framed windows, the kind with many panes pieced together to make a larger whole. It was the old site of Wakefield Cross before they moved into a larger, grander building further uptown and kindly donated the land to a then-sleepy and ceremonial army. It was never built to shelter so many battered souls, but the calm gravity of its proportions shouldered the burden with grace.
The Sunday Six
From Project Starbound:
A few hours of sleep would go unnoticed. It would sink into the routine of the morning. I took his wrist. His heartbeat fluttered under my fingers, exhausted but still running for its life. Crescent shaped welts reddened the palm of his hand. My vision slid out of ordinary focus and locked on the glowing paths of life inside Old Gerald's body: the rush of air as he breathed, the pulse of blood as his heart beat, and something that almost made me shut my eyes and drop Old Gerald's wrist. Red-brown muck concentrated itself in Old Gerald's head.
The Sunday Six
Tristan's two-floor flat was a house of mirrors. Instead of art and photographs mirrors hung on the walls, framed in gilt and rosewood and pale, hand-rubbed birch. The mirror next to Tristan's umbrella stand and the staircase stood inches above my own six feet, the frame carved in a garland of ribbon and woodland creatures peeking from behind lobed oak leaves. Identical silver-framed mirrors flanked a narrow corridor that led to the kitchen, where Tristan prepared a meal with his own hands.