In terms of story, so far it's been fairly linear. I'm planning to shake that up, though, with looks at other events for characters apart from my MC, and snippets of the past. I'm also looking forward to testing my MC's mettle in a big way. This is the second time I've written from a female POV, and I'm surprised by how easy it's been, although that could be due to the fact my protag is fairly "normal" as opposed to a psychopath. It remains to be seen what my CPs (all women) will make of it, though!
Here's a reminder of my blurb, and a little excerpt. I chose it because it doesn't give anything away that isn't in the blurb.
There was nothing she wanted more than to run up to her room, slam the door and bawl her eyes out, but she had to see this through for her mother’s sake. She was the one, in charge, after all, for better or worse. As she made her way through the black-clad army of her father’s extended family, everyone felt like a potential enemy, even though there were some she barely knew. Apologetic smiles met her, but looked like they had been plastered onto faces. It was only five metres from the door to the coffee table, but it felt like a mile.
She straightened up, relieved at setting down her load - her physical load, at any rate. Subdued thanks emanated from those seated on the couches, who gave her the barest glance before helping themselves to more tea.
How long until everyone would start heading home? She glanced at her watch. Another couple of hours at least. This was suffocating, and she wanted these people out of the house. The grief was building up like a dam about to burst. She could be forgiven for taking five minutes to compose herself, couldn’t she? Fresh air would hopefully help. On the way to the French doors, she caught sight of her father, who had already had one too many, the glass of whisky in his hand waving through the air. She couldn’t make out his slurred speech, but he appeared to be laughing, sharing a joke with one of his brothers, relaxed and enjoying himself. Well, she couldn’t say she was too surprised.
The French doors were already open, as there were yet more mourners already out here - the smoking variety. A couple reflecting on the day’s events in between life-shortening puffs of nicotine - her Aunt Betsy and Uncle Stuart. They didn’t seem to register her presence as she stepped outside and sank into one of the ironcast chairs.
“Don’t know how she’s going to cope,” said Aunt Betsy. “We all know Michael is next to useless, and as a young girl, it shouldn’t be up to her to look after him.”
“Leanne did a good job of that, didn’t she? The woman was a saint, in my book.” Stuart took another deep drag of his cigarette and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “A lesser woman would have bolted long ago.”
“Yes, and raising a child that wasn’t even her own. You’ve got to give her credit, she loved that girl with her whole heart.”
Sandra had been staring down at the brickwork of the patio, but now everything swam out of focus. It felt as if someone had plunged her head under water and was holding it there. All sound disappeared but the roaring in her ears, and when she tried to look up, her aunt’s and uncle’s movements were slowed down, their arms making jerky movements as they raised their cigarettes, as if they were puppets. The world tilted on its axis.
WHHHHHHHAAAAAAATTTTT??? Not a word, but an earthquake going off in her head. She got up somehow, and took a couple of steps forward. To do what? Confront her father? Two steps were all she managed before everything went black.
And what of Movember? Well, here is the latest photo update (as of last night, anyway). Apparently I don't know where to look when someone's taking a picture on the iPad!
P.S. I know I said I wouldn't post anything except NaNoWriMovember during November, but make sure to check back on Monday for something big you won't want to miss!