I wrote a whole 2,200 ish words yesterday, which happened to turn into a whole (4 page) chapter. (Granted, I’m making this sound more impressive than it actually is.) So now I’m on chapter 15 of Weirs, and slowly, slowly scratching my way toward the end. A bunch of stuff I wasn’t planning happened, such as pseudo-marriages and moving houses and whatnot. But that’s good. I think.
Found out there’s a writing shindig at Whitmore Library (in SLC, UT) in February that I shall attend because it’s free and super close to my apartment. (As CONduit will also be this year. Hurrah for moving.) It’s called “Write for the Heights” and is conducting a poetry/short story contest. Granted that I’m not much of a poet and I have no recent short stories, I shan’t be entering, but the event should still be fun.
Excerpt of the day:
He nodded. “How good is the sketch?”
“Good, accurate,” Fynch said, a look of concern on his face. “You’re pushing them too hard, Aro. You need to retire—leave this place before it’s too late.”
The older man scoffed.
“I’m serious, Aro.”
“I know, I know,” Aro said, rubbing his forehead. The lack of sleep was wearing on him more than usual. “But where would I go? How could I live in comfort, knowing innocent children are being hearded like sheep for the slaughter, their one year of life spent in some cold cell under Scire’s charge? How could I sleep, knowing I’d abandoned the few I could save?”
Weirs, chapter 15