Lucky 7 Writer Meme


What goes around comes around, and this is slowly going around. Rules of the game:

  1. Go to page 77 of your current manuscript / WIP
  2. Go to line 7
  3. Copy down the next 7 lines (sentences or paragraphs) and post them exactly as they’re written. No cheating.
  4. Tag 7 authors

I’m choosing to interpret ‘authors’ as ‘people who write’ rather than ‘people who are published’ since a) otherwise I’d be disqualified, and b) I don’t know more than two published authors. Anyway, here’s my lines:

There is a breath of laughter behind me. I spin around, pulse racing. A strange woman is standing there, head cocked and sapphire eyes gleaming. She is beautiful, with pale blonde hair falling in careful ringlets over an ivory and green stola. Though shorter than I, she exudes such confidence that her height is irrelevant. She takes my hand with a brilliant smile and sweeps into the study.

  “My dear Aeolus, I do hope you are not slighting the abilities of my sex?”

Right – for those of you who don’t have blogs, post yours in the comments!


6 responses »

  1. “Good.”
    “…I can’t sleep…”
    “Are you angry with me?”
    “Why would I be angry?”
    “…Don’t know.”
    “I’m not angry.”

  2. I’m going to have to cheat with this slightly, because my current short story turned into a poem and therefore totally does not have 77 pages. However you can have 7 lines of it:

    Blinded by the memory of sunlight,
    Colours dance in front of her eyes,
    Obscuring stately columns.

    Cool smooth stone against her soles,
    Shoulders still hot in the shade.
    Great walls of stone, felt but not seen,
    Radiate relief in the gloom.

  3. I don’t generally get to page 77 – that’s the point at which it stops being a short story. So here’s the appropriate bit from page 7 of the story I should be revising right now:

    By the time she reached the trees the sun was brushing the horizon, turning the world a glorious orange. Fadiyah knelt in the long shadows of the palms, mud caking her silks as she scooped up handfuls of water and greedily gulped them down. It tasted like mud and the grit clung to her teeth, but it was the most delicious thing she had tasted in weeks. She was so intent on her purpose that at first she did not notice the sound, the clicking and rattling and hiss of sliding sand.

  4. Jay shook his head, still boggling at the idea of Dick Reeves helping anyone with anything unless there was a complimentary bottle of bubbly attached. “None, sorry. He’ll be on the list for tonight, but events like this are ten-a-penny when you write for The Telegraph.”

    The policeman tilted his head, half-smiling. “Do I detect a hint of bitterness?”

    “Hardly,” Jay said, smiling back. “He gave me four stars.” He paused, a distant memory resolving. “He’s got some cottage in France, hasn’t he? Wouldn’t

    • surprise me if he’d gone there for the week.”

      “Without telling anyone?”

      John shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Like I said, I don’t know him. But he’s not exactly famous for being sociable.”

      (Extra lines because your formatting is different from my formatting! That was seven lines on my page. *g*)

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