Here are the “FAR” goals I established for this round of ROW80:
F-INISHING works in progress by adding >500 weekly new words, net.
A-DDING >1000 weekly new words to works with 10k words or less to them, and
R-EVISING two works for submission (converting one from adult to new adult and editing one based on feedback.) by tackling at least ONE chapter per week.
Here’s what I have done so far this week:
FINISHING: 690 words.
ADDING: 246 words so far.
REVISING: About a half chapter.
I skipped last Sunday’s checkin–really didn’t have much to say because everything was on hold for the Olympics. But now they are over and I’ve put myself back on pace to achieve my weekly goal. I’m doing okay so far.
From my WIP, Three Dates, a little banter between the heroine and hero. Lucy is a matchmaker for a dating agency who handles the “mismatched irregulars and seconds” and Griffin is her client. Lucy narrates. All first draft material so…
I studied Griffin’s profile as he appeared to be pondering the artwork hanging near our booth. Dark whiskers covered his angular jawline. His hair had a slight cowlick on the right side near his part. I loved men’s necks. They were studies in contrasts, of strength and vulnerability wrapped in the same package.
He turned suddenly. “Do you believe in marriage, Lucy?”
Busted. “I do. But for the right reasons. Making a baby together isn’t the right reason.”
A flicker of melancholy passed over his face. Sympathy for me or was he feeling thwarted in his quest to find a wife and mother for his own future children?
“How old were you when you had Angus?”
“Is that a round about way of asking how old I am?” I winked at him, happy for a tool to erase the soggy-bottomed moodiness threatening to creep in.
“Maybe,” he said with a boyish grin. “You know how old I am. Am I not allowed to know how old you are?”
“Thirty is the new sixteen.”
He laughed and a dimple formed in his left cheek. I’d never noticed it before, but there it was, and instantly he was sixteen too. Why weren’t the women he dated seeing what I was seeing? What was wrong with them? Maybe I was coaching the wrong person?
We ate our ice creams and fought over the check. We ended up going dutch at my near hysterical insistence—I had to at least try to keep some professional distance. Clutching our fortune cookies, we paused near the restaurant’s exit and cracked them open.
“Your charms transcend traditional standards,” he read. “Whatever the hell that means.” With a lift of his chin he indicated for me to read my fortune.
“Like the phoenix, your love waits to be reborn.” I twisted my face contemplating the message.
Griffin held the door open for me, and as I passed, he said softly, “It seems, you hold my fortune in your hands.”
Little known factoid: I put fortune cookies in almost ALL my stories. Just one of my quirks, I guess.
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Thanks to all my visitors and commenters.