Go to page 7 or 77 of your current MS/WIP, or go to line 7 (for short fiction). Copy down the next 7 lines, sentences or paragraphs and post them as they are written. Tag 7 authors and let them know.
I don’t usually participate in this kind of thing, but I like this one, and it’s quite writerly, so here goes. I’ve been tagged four times by KateQuinn, Katrina Monroe, Rita Webb and Veronica Sicoe in a cool little tagging game between blogging writers—The Lucky 7 Meme. I think after four tags, it’s time I participated properly. So, the rules are as follows:
The purpose is to share our current projects, share some good luck, and get a little closer to each other. You know, know each other better, and as Veronica said, reveal ourselves in an embarrassing bit of stripping, like Amish women taking off their bonnets on a Sunday.
I’ve checked both page 7 and page 77 of my several WIPs, and decided page 7 of The Legend of Jackson Murphy will entertain you all sufficiently.
Jack would get a hold of that rat-bastard Chihuahua and his fat whore owner. He’d shove the yappy fucker right down her throat. Seriously, the miserable animal shits pebbles, how hard is it to scrape them up? She probably couldn’t bend over far enough to reach it.
Cursing and wiping his sole repeatedly, he walked to the building and up the steps. Pushing through the door, Jack’s gaze fell on his wedding band and the fat lady’s Chihuahua slipped from his mind. He could run it by Ray, but Ray always sided with Jenny. She could be sleeping with Ray for all he knew. Entering the elevator the thought made him laugh out loud.
Jenny with Ray? Absurd. Definitely trading down in Jenny’s case. Jack may not be George Clooney, but he was a damn sight better than Ray. Jack rated an almost-Brad Pitt-level of attractive. Ray, at barely five and a half feet tall, thick glasses and thinning hair—with a personality to match his good looks—didn’t come close. He repeated himself every time he spoke and his allergies kept him inside all day during the spring and fall. Jenny would choose better company than Ray. Besides, who would choose Woody Allen over an almost Brad Pitt?
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and Jack stepped out shaking his head. If she’d found someone else, it might give him leverage in a divorce. If she wanted to be free to be with her new lover, she might let him have what he wanted.
Not likely, Jack.
He strode down the hall toward his office located near the end, across from an old guy who Jack swore couldn’t leave his apartment unless he’d shit his pants. The shit-man’s door opened, hinges creaking over a shuffling of slippered feet. Jack rushed forward. The “C” hung crooked on his door, and he straightened it before opening.
Inside the apartment, Ray sat at his desk. He’d dimmed the lights and closed the pale yellow drapes so the sunlight streaming through the patio doors behind him couldn’t reflect on his computer screen. That gave him migraines.
There you have it. Jackson Murphy. Now to the writers I’m tagging:
There are many more writers that I want to tag, but I know that to tag will stress them out and you know, we don’t want to stress the writers. So, I’ll leave you guys alone. You know who you are (Mike, Maria, Carlos…)
Readers: Mostly I think you’ll enjoy these writers and their blogs. Writers: If you’d rather not participate or tag anyone else, that’s okay. I declare you’ll still have good writing luck if you post your page 7 or 77 or just share the link to your latest blog post in the comments. As Veronica said, it’s a great way for everyone to peek out of our own worlds and into each other’s.