.: Hit a major stumbling block yesterday with writing my NaWriMoNo.
Just felt really shitty. Piss poor mood. I did nothing at all. I mean black. Black mood, folks. I can't make it any clearer without possibly putting myself back there.
But today was better. Almost 2,000 words this evening and things are really looking sloppy. But a really good sloppy, you know?
Most of the major characters have been introduced, even if not quite in order. I needed to get the introductions out of the way because I need to know who these folks are beyond my notes. I'll fix it in post, because I really like where this is going, so much more than last years (which I still like, but have hit major fucking standstill on, so the November break should be good for head clearing on that and the Bistro re-write).
I wish I was comfortable with putting more funny in it, because I really like the working title.
Fuck that. Just hit a nugget of an idea for that title, will work on that post NaNoWriMo (or possibly start notes at work).
So, 3,652 words. 7 days done.
46,358 to go with 22 days left. (that's 2107 words a day)
Piece. Of. Fucking. Cake.
Excerpt follows.
She had propositioned him, mistaking his disguise as a successful businessman with a mild tech fetish for the real thing. He had noted the tell-tales of her hardware upgrades, noted the tear in the synthetic skin that had been stretched over the biomech implants in her left arm. It wasn't hard to miss though, since as two wires crossed and gave off a spark and pop, she bent her neck to light her cigarette off her faulty mech, and blew it out with a breath of blue-grey smoke.
“How much?” he asked, seriously interested.
“Hundred bucks, old cash,” she said. “Five hundred new cash, I don't have citizenship anymore. Harder to unload. If you have some good tech in that case, something I can use, maybe we can make a better deal for both of us.”
He looked at her, blinked once ignorantly, and then laughed.
“No, no,” he said. “How much of you is mech? If you don't mind me asking?”
She grinned, cynically. I had him pegged. Tech fetish asshole. “Sixty-five percent, give or take,” she lied. It was really about forty-seven point nine three two zero five percent, according to her last back alley Doc.
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“So, you wanna make a deal or what?” she said. “I've got better things to do.”
“No,” he smiled. “You don't. I'll give you two hundred old cash to come with me to that coffee shop over there, let me buy you a cup of coffee, tell me how much of you really is mech—because I know for a fact that the highest mech/bio ratio ever accomplished and allowed to go free is about 53/47—and let me make you an offer for a real job, with possibilities of more work as it comes.”
Now it was her turn. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“You wanna make a deal or not?” he said. “Because while I don't have anything better to do at the moment, I have to do it off this street.”
AB
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