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Mar. 28th, 2012 10:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsThe possibility of two posts in a day. What craziness is this?
Taken from many people.
1. Go to page 77 (or 7) of your current ms.
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written.
4. Tag 7 other authors. I don't tag for these things, but everyone should do this. Show me what you're writing!
I went to the story I've actually been working on lately, and line 77 was the start of paragraphs of angst and woe, plus, actually being written for someone so no sharing just yet. But then the cat picture post from yesterday reminded me of the pet boutique story I'd started, and when I checked I'd written more of that than I remembered.
Basic premise is. Mikey and Ryan own a pet boutique and Ryan is room mates with Jon, who communicates via a series of passive aggressive notes about the state of their shared space. I have no idea what actually happens in the story, or what, if any pairings there will be. I just wanted Mikey and Ryan to spend time buying and displaying pet clothes, and maybe Frank being their groomer and Spencer despairing over their books. I am easily pleased, okay?
Ryan does, realising seconds after that he’s got no idea what he's actually signed for. Not that it makes any difference. Already the delivery man is climbing back into his truck and Ryan’s left with the boxes -- the very big boxes filled with god knows what stock.
It’s the kind of situation Spencer’s always warning Ryan about. How he should always check what he’s actually receiving, and if it’s in good condition, before signing his name. It’s just, sometimes Ryan tends to forget. Like now, when he’s left alone and has no choice but to manhandle the boxes to safety.
Ryan stares at the boxes. The boxes stare back -- at least they would if they had eyes and an actual face. Still, it’s a stand-off that lasts until Ryan tugs up the cuffs of his shirt and announces, “Game on.”
When he does actually get the boxes inside -- ten minutes, two jammed fingers and a torn sleeve later -- Ryan kicks the door shut with his foot and then tears at the packaging with his fingers. Not that he gets very far, defeated by a combination of duct tape and cardboard that seems to have welded together into some kind of impenetrable seem.
Frustrated, Ryan sucks his finger into his mouth, soothing a paper cut as he looks for an actual pair of scissors, or a knife, or a ceremonial sword if he actually had one. Which Ryan doesn’t, but what he does have are nail clippers, many, many kinds of nail clippers. Grabbing a pair off of the shelf he stabs the point into a box and starts hacking.
It turns out Ryan’s signed for a consignment of ballerina outfits. Which are awesome, and within minutes Ryan’s sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of pink tulle and sparkly material, all of it designed and fitted for all sizes of cats and dogs.
Ryan scoops up a small tutu and drops it over his head, so when he looks up all he can see is shimmering pink. Ryan grins, sometimes he loves his life.
Taken from many people.
1. Go to page 77 (or 7) of your current ms.
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written.
4. Tag 7 other authors. I don't tag for these things, but everyone should do this. Show me what you're writing!
I went to the story I've actually been working on lately, and line 77 was the start of paragraphs of angst and woe, plus, actually being written for someone so no sharing just yet. But then the cat picture post from yesterday reminded me of the pet boutique story I'd started, and when I checked I'd written more of that than I remembered.
Basic premise is. Mikey and Ryan own a pet boutique and Ryan is room mates with Jon, who communicates via a series of passive aggressive notes about the state of their shared space. I have no idea what actually happens in the story, or what, if any pairings there will be. I just wanted Mikey and Ryan to spend time buying and displaying pet clothes, and maybe Frank being their groomer and Spencer despairing over their books. I am easily pleased, okay?
Ryan does, realising seconds after that he’s got no idea what he's actually signed for. Not that it makes any difference. Already the delivery man is climbing back into his truck and Ryan’s left with the boxes -- the very big boxes filled with god knows what stock.
It’s the kind of situation Spencer’s always warning Ryan about. How he should always check what he’s actually receiving, and if it’s in good condition, before signing his name. It’s just, sometimes Ryan tends to forget. Like now, when he’s left alone and has no choice but to manhandle the boxes to safety.
Ryan stares at the boxes. The boxes stare back -- at least they would if they had eyes and an actual face. Still, it’s a stand-off that lasts until Ryan tugs up the cuffs of his shirt and announces, “Game on.”
When he does actually get the boxes inside -- ten minutes, two jammed fingers and a torn sleeve later -- Ryan kicks the door shut with his foot and then tears at the packaging with his fingers. Not that he gets very far, defeated by a combination of duct tape and cardboard that seems to have welded together into some kind of impenetrable seem.
Frustrated, Ryan sucks his finger into his mouth, soothing a paper cut as he looks for an actual pair of scissors, or a knife, or a ceremonial sword if he actually had one. Which Ryan doesn’t, but what he does have are nail clippers, many, many kinds of nail clippers. Grabbing a pair off of the shelf he stabs the point into a box and starts hacking.
It turns out Ryan’s signed for a consignment of ballerina outfits. Which are awesome, and within minutes Ryan’s sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of pink tulle and sparkly material, all of it designed and fitted for all sizes of cats and dogs.
Ryan scoops up a small tutu and drops it over his head, so when he looks up all he can see is shimmering pink. Ryan grins, sometimes he loves his life.
