Chapter 28: Work in Progress. 300-word Sneak Peek. Come on in ....

There's only one rule I follow .... Write. Rewrite. Re-rewrite.

Chatted with a special friend earlier today. She's one of those cool librarians. The kind who encourages my love of reading & writing. She asked, "How's your second draft coming along?"

I'm making progress. Slow but steady. Mostly because I work a full-time job (50+ hours a week, not including travel time), and I try to keep my promise of writing at least 500 words each weekday and another1,500 on Saturday & Sunday. This past week was a big miss. I'd been consumed with 5 long days hustling at our annual convention we conducted out of state. Up at 5:30 each day. Bed an hour before midnight. A grueling schedule, and I'm glad to be home. Glad to be shifting my focus back to my daily work routine and my daily writing.

When I'm away from my manuscript --- a thriller about a teenage girl who believes her toddler brother's death was no accident --- I can't help but think ... is it good? Is it working? Is it believable? Do the characters feel real?

If you'll allow me, I'd love to hear your thoughts ... below is a 300-word snippet from the start of chapter 28 from my novel in progress. I hope you enjoy the read. Let me know if it stimulates your interest ...

There’s a price we must all pay when someone is murdered. When death bites into the soul of your family and the guilty are breathing in your ear, your heart, your flesh—spinning you left and right. Teetering you on the brink of a precipice, and all you want is to close your eyes, jump, and float, float away. 

I tried that, once. A metamorphosis. Mutating myself from a human child—not into a butterfly—but as a panel of wood. A strip of floor board. A splintered fragment of the porch wrapped around our broken house: the deck where it happened almost a decade ago. The death of my brother. I had craved petrification. The hardening of my soul. Stone cold. I felt that way, living my childhood years without my brother Zane. I believed at the time that his blue death—choking and suffocating on that damned piece of candy—could happen to me. A cyclical death in our family, striking out, with its hooked fingers, clawing at me too. But if I kept myself rock hard, different from Zane’s softness, his tender heart and flesh, I could survive the uncertainty of my future. Little did I know, the adults in my life had already hardened their hearts. Playing their games of deceit, betrayal, and manipulation. Now, in my teenage years, I’ve fallen in the cracks of their damaged world, slipping down, down, down. Exposing myself. Vulnerable to their threats.

I can’t let them win. 

I won’t. 

They’ve already taken my brother. They can’t have me too. 

So, I play their game, hiding myself behind the skin of a naive girl. I try not to give myself away, not to my Aunt Valerie, and certainly not to my father. I keep them close. Knowing they are the enemy. Swearing I will soon have my vengeance and set my brother free. 

(Leave a comment below. Your feedback is truly valued.)

Thanks for taking this journey with me. Until next time ... Write. Rewrite. Re-rewrite. And never give up.