Welcome to WIPpet Wednesday, a weekly blog hop which encourages writers to move WIPs (works-in-progress) to publication by posting excerpts related to the date.We’re led by the capable fingers and nimble mind of Emily Witt.
Did I visit anyone (or everyone?) last week? I think I did.
Let’s say I did. Let’s say I’ll be able to do it again, too…and let’s also say that, if I didn’t visit you, and you shared on the WIPpet linky, I’m sorry I missed you. It’s been a week of delving deeply into Many Things, and we’re still making the adjustment from my Accomplice working dinner shifts to breakfast and lunch ones, as he settles into this new job and the new routines that go with it.
But all that aside, we’re here today for WIPpet Wednesday, so let’s dive in, shall we?
Ava was a constant revelation during the writing of her story. Her struggle goes beyond the issue of whether people should be allowed to choose the manner of their death. She encapsulates my personal attitudes about how children deserve to be treated. It’s an honor to share her voice with you!
In advocating for a dying girl seeking emancipation from controlling parents, can an overburdened young woman and a lonely young man find a future together?
This passage has been rough-edited (trust me, you don’t want to see the muddled-beyond-hope original version! I’ll be creating a more structured revision plan once the 24 scenes pass through my local crit group (proceeding very slowly), and I’ve completed Holly Lisle’s How to Revise Your Novel class.
Your input is gratefully accepted, and might go a long way toward making this a better novel!
Ava presses her luck.
Warning: Her father has a potty mouth. You have been warned – NSFW!
Today is February 8, 2017
I used the digits of the month and day, subtracting 2 from 8 for 6 short paragraphs.
But she wasn’t there, and he wasn’t here. She was thousands of miles away, and she was going to be dead soon enough. Out of his reach forever. For the first time in her life, she could say exactly what she wanted, and he couldn’t do a damned thing to her.
“Well, that’s too bad, Papi. I’m not telling you. No one will. The confidentiality agreements here are what you would call iron-clad.” Why was she doing this?