False Start Fridays: Week Three

Thought for the day:  I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter.  [James Michener]

A whole lotta butts...

Writers can generate a lot of buts. Not in their writing...  in their attitudes.

I would write today but...
I was going to submit that story but...
I meant to send out a query today but...
I have a great idea for a new book but...

Et cetera, et cetera.

No more buts, I tell ya! Put that butt into your chair, and write... submit... and repeat. Sorry, but there's no shortcut. If there were, I would have taken it a long time ago.

Okay, this is the last week of False Start Fridays, and I'd like to thank Suze for coming up with such a kewl idea. (Thanks, Suze!) This time, instead of dragging a forgotten writing exercise out of my desk drawer, I'm gonna post an excised portion from an earlier draft of my WIP Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade. It made me laugh when I was writing it, but alas, it didn't do a thing to advance the story. Plus, it made my main character Pearl look moronic, and was way too much tell and too little show. So, it had to go. But just for you, it's back for a smelly little visit today.

***
   Pearl didn’t notice the man at first. She didn’t see him, huffing and puffing, as he stomped toward her, and she didn’t even see him when he stopped beside her car. Truth is, she didn’t notice him at all. Not until he demanded her attention by pounding on the window beside her head.

   Then, two things happened at once. A startled little poot bubbled out of her at one end, and she sucked in her breath so sharply at the other, she almost choked on her own spit . Which, of course, made her cough. And every time she coughed, she broke wind again. Cough, cough. (pffftt) Cough, cough. (pffftt) Cough, cough. (pffftt) For good measure, when she turned to the man glaring at her through the window, she felt a damp spot warm the crotch of her underwear. Crap-a-doodle-damn-doo.

   He was enormous, both in height and circumference. His face was flushed, and he was wearing a white short-sleeved dress shirt with huge perspiration blotches under each arm. The top button was open, his necktie loosened. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but she could practically feel his laser-like glare burning into her flesh. He was bent over, glaring at her through the window, glaring right at her, staring right into her eyes, with his face only inches away from hers. Oh yeah, there was no doubt about it. He was ticked. What’s more, he was ticked at her.

   Wide-eyed, Pearl stared back at him, swallowed hard, and hiccoughed. Now that the coughing fit was over, she concentrated on controlling her breathing. Easy does it, slow it down, in and out, in and out. And she squeezed her crotch muscles together. Lord, please don’t let me tinkle on my car seat. Hiccough. 

   Slowly, deliberately, Pearl blinked at the man. He was no longer pounding on the window, but his hands, now hanging at his sides, were still balled into fists, and he continued to glare at her. “WHAT THE HELL’S THE MATTER WITH YOU, LADY?” he demanded.

   I don’t know.

   Against her better judgement, Pearl rolled the window down a teensy bit, and he immediately jammed his face next to the opening. “Excuse me…?” she squeaked. Still breathing, easy does it, in and out, in and out. Still squeezing, no more pee, no more pee. Hiccough.

   “You DEAF?” he yelled through the narrow opening at the top of the window. “I’ve been laying on my horn for five minutes! You waiting for the damned stop sign to turn green?”

   Then the purple cloud hit his nostrils. He abruptly stood up, gave his head a slight shake, coughed, and took a step back from the window.

   Take that! Pearl thought, while desperately fighting the urge to giggle. 

***

                                  There ya have it. Again, thanks, Suze. It's been fun.

How do you like THEM apples? (source)

                                  Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

                    A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit.  [Richard Back]