For one of the first times in my writing career, I've been at loose ends as to which project to work on. I have only one commitment and it's for a short, not due for several months. I have nothing due to my agent or any of my editors, although most of my editors would like SOMETHING. The last year has been a pretty slow one for me.
So I'm posting a couple snippets of my current works-in-progress, just to get a feel for if one of them leaps out and screams to be the focus for a while. So let me know--what do you think? I'll give one random commenter a download of the new version of Nailed as a thank you for the input.
A new Gaslight Chronicles book: this is literally all I have written: The new
single-person airship prototype was working like a dream. Melody MacKay held
onto the tiller with one hand while she looked out over the Devonshire
coastline through her smoke-tinted goggles.
***
This one is for a project on tap for
Decadent Publishing, an installment of their “Calendar Men” series:
All Sig could do was grunt. Her
touch set off sparks in his gut—sparks that had pretty much been dormant since
he’d gotten out of the VA hospital last winter. Damn near everything about
Elsie appealed to him—her strawberry blonde hair, her freckles, the way her
rounded ass swayed as she walked. She reminded him of Becky Thatcher, all grown
up and hot as hell. He found himself making excuses to come shopping for his
aquarium at least twice a week, sometimes more if he was really lonely.
Once she pulled her hand away, he
tipped his chin. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night?” She didn’t open the
store on Sundays, so he knew she wouldn’t have to work.
Elsie shook her head, but shot
him a lopsided grin. “No, but thank you for asking. Again.”
Sig shrugged. He asked her every
time he came in. And every single time she shot him down. “Ah well. Can’t blame
a guy for trying.” It made sense, of course. He knew he was still mostly a
wreck. He didn’t have a job, his military career was over, and all he did with
his days was work on his house, take care of his fish tank, and put in whatever
hours his brother-in-law could throw him at the garage. Still, she smiled when
he asked and he liked to make her smile. So it was worth getting rejected twice
a week. Hell, it was the closest thing to a social life he had these days.
Might as well enjoy it.
She snorted out a little laugh.
It might have sounded coarse on a less impish-looking woman, but on her it
seemed cute. “I adore you for asking. But the answer is still the same. No.” She waved him toward the door. “I
told you I have no interest in dating. Anyone. Come back Tuesday. I’ll have
those new clown fish I wanted to show you.”
“Now, that’s a date.”
***
This is one I’ve started called Accidental
Slayer. It’s a zombie-hunter romance, or maybe not. It may be the first
book I’ve ever written without an HEA. It could go either way. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Of course my
body was still a lot more tired than my brain wanted to acknowledge. At some
point, I must have nodded off, because there I was, back in my dream, this time
sitting cross-legged on a tatami mat
talking to Mr. Nelson. “Why am I here?” I asked the man who had been the one
stable influence in my young life.
He smiled his
usual enigmatic smile. He looked sort of like a part-Comanche Chuck Norris,
with dark eyes that could stare into your soul and his brown hair shot with
white. In my dream, he was old, but not as emaciated as he’d been the last time
I saw him. “I don’t know. Maybe you need someone to talk to. Or perhaps you
simply have to face your own past so you can move forward.”
“Wax on, wax
off,” I muttered. Same old Mr. Nelson. He’d always been big on that
navel-gazing shit.
Then he
smiled. “Or maybe you’re just dreaming and it doesn’t have any significance at
all. Maybe you just missed me.”
“Yeah, that
could be it.” Of course I missed him. He was the closest thing to a parental
figure I’d ever had. He’d caught me shoplifting an apple one day, taken me
home, fed me, and given me a job sweeping out his dojo for meals and free
classes. He’d probably kept me out of jail if not saved my life. Now I smiled
at the dream version of him, relieved it was that simple. What the heck, since
this was a dream, I could enjoy visiting with a memory. I studied his face,
glad it was still there in my mind, and not fading with time.
But he didn’t
let me off that easily. “Or maybe, your subconscious is warning you that
something big is coming your way.”
“I’m not
psychic.” I’d repeated that to him so many times over the years that the
response was automatic.
“Not in a big
way,” he agreed. “But you do have a certain…connection to the universe. I
recognized that the first time I saw you. That’s what gives you the edge you
have killing zombies—that ability to predict where the next blow will come
from.”
“Bullshit.”
He smiled and
shrugged. “Believe what you want. But don’t waste your gifts—they might save
your life. And don’t waste yourself. You’re a human being, not a machine. You
need a social life. Have some fun, get yourself laid.” Then his eyes clouded.
“But be careful. These are very interesting times, indeed. Don’t let them
destroy you.”
With that,
the dream faded away and I jolted awake at my desk, looking around frantically
to see if anyone had noticed. Since only the dispatcher and the two desk
sergeants were in the building, nobody had.
I poured
myself a cup of coffee so strong it made my eyes bug out. Ah, that was the
ticket. Sipping slowly, I sat back down at my desk and put my feet up,
pondering the dream. Much as I hated to admit it, I did have some kind of sixth
sense for danger. It had saved my hide on more than one occasion and right now
it was tingling like a bad rash.
When the
precinct door banged open, I looked up as one of the sergeants said, “Go on in.
Lt. Perry can help you, since Captain Morris won’t be in for an hour.” The
night shift lt. had of course, left with their strike team. Since I was here, they
hadn’t called anyone else in to cover. I glanced at the clock on my wall. Sure
enough, it was almost seven. One more hour until my shift officially began.
There’s an
old Chinese curse that says, “May you live in interesting times.” It had been
one of Mr. Nelson’s favorite sayings. I’d always figured the plague made things
just about as interesting as they could get. Isn’t it amazing just how wrong a
smart woman can be?
I looked out
through my door at a tall, well-built man, thirty-three years old, with blond
hair, blue eyes that could bore holes through concrete, a face that rivaled any
movie star’s, and a grey pinstripe suit that cost more than my monthly rent.
Fuck.
Of all the
zombie-hunting precincts in all the world, why the bloody hell did he have to walk into mine?
***
This one is for Ellora’s Cave, bringing in a dragon shifter who’s the half-brother
of Dana from Stone and Fire and Bram
from Between a Rock and a Hard-On.
He’d had more than had his fill of being social for the day—hell,
for the entire year. If he hadn’t
promised his sister he’d make an effort to get out of his castle—his lair,
she’d called it—at least once in a while, he’d still be back in Scotland,
handling his business the comfortable way—via internet. Instead, he slumped
down onto a barstool and called, “I’ll have a quart of your stout, Donovan,”
without bothering to look up. Another nice thing about a paranormal bar—nobody
worried about portion control. Carrick couldn’t get drunk on anything less than
a barrelful, but he found the flavor soothing. Besides, he was thirsty after a
long day of meetings.
“Coming right up.” The lilting feminine voice with a soft brogue snapped
him out of his introspective funk.
Carrick looked up to see a petite, red-haired female building a
glass of stout at the nearby tap. He blinked. In the hundred or so years he’d
been coming to Pot O’Gold, he’d never seen a single soul behind the bar except
for Dennis Donovan, the leprechaun who owned the place. “You’re sure as hell
not Donovan.”
The female laughed, her wide green eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Aye, but I am.” She placed his oversized glass in front of him and gave a
little bow, which revealed the tops of her generous breasts in the scooped neck
of her black T-shirt. “Neala Donovan, at your service. My da is away for a few
days, so I’m minding the bar.”
“Carrick MacNair.” He’d never met a female leprechaun either, but
he supposed they had to exist. Now that he looked, he could see the
resemblance. Not only was she barely five feet tall, but she had Donovan’s
carrot-red hair and pale freckled complexion, though it was a lot more
interesting in feminine form, especially since her tight top and jeans outlined
a lusciously curved package. Carrick lifted his glass. “Pleasure to meet you,
miss. Who knew old Dennis had a daughter?”
“Actually, he’s got three.” A grin quirked her lips. “My eldest
sister Riona has just produced the first grandchild to the old coot, so he and
Mam are off to county Cork to pay homage to the crown prince.”
“Well, congratulations to the Donovan clan.” Having nieces and
nephews of his own, Carrick understood the proud but wary gleam in her eyes. He
loved the little baggages, but had no idea what to do with them. He nodded
politely, expecting her to move off and leave him to enjoy his draught in peace.
Instead she leaned her elbows on the bar across from him. “So, Mr.
Carrick MacNair, what sort of dragon are you? I can’t quite make it out in your
aura.”
Carrick lifted an eyebrow. So that’s how Donovan had known, way
back when. Apparently leprechauns could read auras. “Bronze.” He sipped his
stout, loving the rich malty taste and the smooth feel as it went down his
throat. “But only half.”
“Ah, well that explains it then. ’Tis no wonder your aura’s a mite
confused.” She reached out one hand and touched his where it rested on the oak
bar. “So warm. That must be a real boon up in the Highlands.”
His breath caught at that light, cool touch. Her hands were small,
but sturdy, the nails short and free of polish.
He shouldn’t be reacting so
much to just a brush of her fingers. Apparently it had been far too long since
he’d been with a female, if just her fingertips could set his blood pumping.
“Is that in my aura as well?” His voice had gone regrettably husky. “That I
live up in the mountains?”
“No.” She chuckled again. “That’s in your voice and you know it. “
***
So what do you think? Anything that just screams, “Yes! Cindy
should write this. Now!”? While you’re at it, you might want to take a quick
peek at Nailed, over at Resplendence. Have a great week!
8 comments:
Calendar men series!!!!! ;) although I'm really dying for another cowboy book!!!
ooh, cowboys. Haven't gone there in a while! Thanks.
I love Gaslight Chroncles and definitely would vote for that one :-)
And no-HEA *shaking head violently) don't do it! Or at least mark it really well !!!! to avoid being lynched
Peggy
Thanks, Peggy. :)
All great sounding ideas, Cindy.
I was in the same position not long ago. I asked my agent in which order I should do things. She said, "Edit first, then rewrites, then new proposal.
I don't know if that helps at all. I'd be careful of the title Accidental Slayer. There's the Accidental Demon Slayer book by...I want to say, Angie Fox? Then there's the whole Dakota Cassidy Accidental series.
I'd like to read any of the others. Must have an HEA or I will hunt you down and spank you.
I want Sig and Elsie's story! Although any of them sound good. You'd need to make your blurb very clear if you don't do an HEA or, as Peggy said, there'll be a lynch mob after you.
Berengaria
All of them were great reads, Cindy! And the "wax on, wax off" with Accidental Slayer had me rolling! But I'm on board with Berengaria, Sig and Elsie's snippet snagged me. I even scrolled back up to re-read it. My vote is cast for them!
Thank you all! Sig and Elsie are definites: they're scheduled for November from Decadent Publishing, it's a short, part of a yearlong series there. I'm not married to the title Accidental, but at some point I do hope to get back to the whole zombie world. It'll have kind of an ongoing Casablanca riff throughout, only backward. And I really think it will be a romance with an HEA. It's just what I like. Meanwhile? Leaning toward historical. Which I didn't post... I know. I'm a mess.
Post a Comment