About another 700 rough draft words, some planning and a bit of editing.
*** “Where have you gone?” The words were a deep murmur by John’s ear. Sherlock’s fingers smoothed down John’s back, under the sheet, adding a slight ripple to the image in the long rectangle of glass. John turned his eyes away from it, tilted his head up and pressed his lips to the vibration in the long throat.
“Mind reading?” he whispered back, against the skin, eyes closed.
“I can tell when your focus isn’t on me. Always have done; it doesn’t take mind reading.” Sherlock turned his head, found the image floating in front of the leather-bound books. “Ah,” he said...
I've read lots of Sherlock fic lately, and they tend to be quite uniform, unfortunately. You, on the other hand, write the boys in a completely unique way - it's amazing.
Another ~280 rough words (consistent, anyway), nearly but not quite to the end of the second scene (of four). I edited yesterday's and I'm much happier with the way the thing is going now. On the other hand, not half way yet and time is running thin.
Glad to hear the editing helped, and more words added too! I tend to need the push deadlines give me, but it's no fun while they're looming. Hope things go well today.
I just want to say thanks for letting me hang out here. I haven't finished writing what I wanted to write, but you were sweet and supportive anyway. Now we're off on holiday so I will be offline for the next eight days.
I wrote about 5 pages of Chapter 13 of "Smiths & Joneses". This will be a realitevely calm and funny part, after all the excitement with the alien assassin, focusing on Ianto's protential recovery.
Excerpt:
When a good twenty minutes later – he’d been on the phone with Colonel Mace, and boy, had that been a shouting match of extraordinary proportions! – Jack emerged from the Hub, he found Sarah Jane and Beth sitting it the small kitchenette behind the bead curtain, having tea with custard cream biscuits… and a conversation about carpet cleaning, of all possibly topics in the universe!
His mind boggled.
But then he remembered that Sarah Jane had a big old house to keep in a habitable condition with only a rather… unusual teenaged boy to help her with that and realized that for women carrying the burden of a household alone this probably was an interesting topic.
Besides, was it not this what Torchwood fought for? So that ordinary people could worry about taxes and house cleaning and how their kids were doing at school, instead of living in fear of the very real possibility of an alien invasion?
Dropping in to say no new writing done, what with holiday, work, a hangover, and the lurghy, but I am still thinking and things are still falling into place. Nonetheless, various things have fallen beautifully into the place with the sentence that occured to me this afternoon, "He's involved with Lapp separatist movements," said [censored] miserably."
The story is moving along, and today took a leap forward two and a half years:
July 1966 Three bottles from his room's mini-bar joined the four he'd appropriated on his flight over in his jacket pocket. He checked the map one last time, then folded it and slipped it into the opposite pocket. Possibly he should have phoned ahead, but he didn't have the number. Besides, his news was far better delivered in person, and announcing his imminent arrival would only lead to questions regarding his purpose.
The month before, when he'd asked Raymond to find out the address, he'd been so certain of himself. He'd had money – plenty of it – and had been confident of being able to finally settle down. Now his status had improved beyond imagining, but the debts that came with his new title were equally fantastical. He'd need every ounce of cunning he'd ever possessed to get his finances back into the black without resorting to breaking up his inheritance. The grouse moor in the Highlands could go, of course. He'd never enjoyed shooting for sport, and while it might bring in money from those who did, he couldn't be bothered overseeing yet another business he had no interest in.
OK, making all sorts of guesses here. The dreaded Duke has died and so has Hugh with no offspring acknowledged as his own? Edward is in NY looking up Consolata and Rupert? I'm not a big believer in surprises. Edward may get a horrible one shortly (pure conjecture).
I've not managed to get anything done over this weekend - too much messing around with cycles, family wedding, general socialising, and then a friend dropped round this evening who I'd not seen in ages, so worth the lack of progress! Tomorrow...
I posted my three npt stories (without all the beta comments, but I think they are okay anyway), but haven't done any actual writing today. Hopefully tomorrow.... although it looks like being writing an emergency pinch hit in a fandom I don't know well...
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on 2012-07-22 11:06 pm (UTC)***
“Where have you gone?” The words were a deep murmur by John’s ear. Sherlock’s fingers smoothed down John’s back, under the sheet, adding a slight ripple to the image in the long rectangle of glass. John turned his eyes away from it, tilted his head up and pressed his lips to the vibration in the long throat.
“Mind reading?” he whispered back, against the skin, eyes closed.
“I can tell when your focus isn’t on me. Always have done; it doesn’t take mind reading.” Sherlock turned his head, found the image floating in front of the leather-bound books. “Ah,” he said...
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on 2012-07-23 01:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
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on 2012-07-23 09:31 am (UTC)Image? Intriguing.
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on 2012-07-23 01:42 pm (UTC)You're having a very productive month!
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on 2012-07-23 12:34 pm (UTC)I wrote about 5 pages of Chapter 13 of "Smiths & Joneses". This will be a realitevely calm and funny part, after all the excitement with the alien assassin, focusing on Ianto's protential recovery.
Excerpt:
When a good twenty minutes later – he’d been on the phone with Colonel Mace, and boy, had that been a shouting match of extraordinary proportions! – Jack emerged from the Hub, he found Sarah Jane and Beth sitting it the small kitchenette behind the bead curtain, having tea with custard cream biscuits… and a conversation about carpet cleaning, of all possibly topics in the universe!
His mind boggled.
But then he remembered that Sarah Jane had a big old house to keep in a habitable condition with only a rather… unusual teenaged boy to help her with that and realized that for women carrying the burden of a household alone this probably was an interesting topic.
Besides, was it not this what Torchwood fought for? So that ordinary people could worry about taxes and house cleaning and how their kids were doing at school, instead of living in fear of the very real possibility of an alien invasion?
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on 2012-07-23 01:47 pm (UTC)You're moving forwards quickly with this one.
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on 2012-07-23 01:36 pm (UTC)Napoleon shook his head. "Here I thought you 'd be pining for me while I was gone, instead...."
"Three weeks without a word, Napoleon," Wanda pouted while she attached his badge. "And don't tell me you weren't wining and dining Mona in London."
"No secrets among spies," Napoleon sighed. He caught sight of the Number 2 badge still in the rack. "Illya not in yet?"
Wanda gave him a surprised look. "Is he due back today too?"
Napoleon stared at her. " Zhelayu udachi, my friend," echoed in his head. He should have been more surprised.
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on 2012-07-23 08:30 pm (UTC)Phase 3 -- July's writing:
The story is moving along, and today took a leap forward two and a half years:
July 1966
Three bottles from his room's mini-bar joined the four he'd appropriated on his flight over in his jacket pocket. He checked the map one last time, then folded it and slipped it into the opposite pocket. Possibly he should have phoned ahead, but he didn't have the number. Besides, his news was far better delivered in person, and announcing his imminent arrival would only lead to questions regarding his purpose.
The month before, when he'd asked Raymond to find out the address, he'd been so certain of himself. He'd had money – plenty of it – and had been confident of being able to finally settle down. Now his status had improved beyond imagining, but the debts that came with his new title were equally fantastical. He'd need every ounce of cunning he'd ever possessed to get his finances back into the black without resorting to breaking up his inheritance. The grouse moor in the Highlands could go, of course. He'd never enjoyed shooting for sport, and while it might bring in money from those who did, he couldn't be bothered overseeing yet another business he had no interest in.
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