WIP Challenge Check-in, Day 19 -- Saturday

[linaewen]

Saturday is here at last!  I hope it's a great day for you, whether writing happens or not.

Have you had a good week of writing?  Did you accomplish any of your goals?  Do you feel like you are on track for what you wanted to accomplish this month?  Post here anything you want to share, like story snippets, word counts, complaints about writer's block, or pleas for betas.

Here's one last Flamingo-influenced discussion post for the week:

 

How do you feel about lack of comments on a story you've posted.  At archive sites where kudos is given, is this good enough feedback for you or would you prefer comments?

Comments

[roane]

Gah. It has been a tough week for me writing-wise. I'd hoped to be much further along in this chapter than I am. But it's the weekend, so hopefully I can get some good work in over the next day or so.

I LOVE comments. Love them. Even short little "This is great!" comments are awesome. Longer comments are pure gold. But I do like the kudos thing too. Obviously, I'd /prefer/ comments, but I'll take any feedback I can get. :D

And... here's my usual snippet. Irene just got out of the hospital with a concussion, after a lighting rig fell on her in a possibly suspicious accident.

******

"Stop treating me like a china doll, I'm fine!" Irene sat propped against the headboard of her hotel bed. "You know, 'keep her under observation' doesn't mean I need all three fucking Stooges standing watch around my bed."

John glanced at Greg and Sherlock and fought a smile. They were being a little overprotective, maybe. "Bad metaphor," he said. "We don't need anyone else getting a knock on the head."

"I'll knock you on the head if you don't stop hovering."

"Wasn't 'irritability' one of the symptoms the doctor told us to look out for?" asked Sherlock. Irene threw a pillow at him.

"Just tell me we know who this guy is now," said Irene.

John sat down on the side of the bed and sighed. "We really don't. I mean, there's not much to go on: Molly's description, and the notes. He doesn't exactly tell us anything about himself."

"Doesn't he?" Sherlock curled in the armchair, knees drawn up to his chest. "He's my age, possibly a bit younger. British, and considers himself to be at least marginally upper class. And he claims to have met me and had a conversation with me. That last bit doesn't really help, of course, but it's part of what we know. He's relatively attractive—something I knew before Molly's sketch—"

"What?" said Greg.

"Attractive?" said John, overlapping with him.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Oh, stop being jealous. He was attractive enough to get Molly's attention, but he's not so attractive that he can't pass unobserved when he wants to. He blends in."