This week: a huge stack of AB edits that I should have addressed already. I pulled them off into their own little pile and saw the first chapter comments for the new book, which I now want to work on, at least to get it from longhand onto the computer.
Also, a longish list of murder mystery edits.
Next week reporting on Tuesday for PPW April Write Brain; Thursday is the start of the conference. Time to get a move on!
Good news: I get to go to South Dakota in May for my sister's graduation! I'm going to stop at Zandbroz and see whether they have any good SD history books for the new book. Something clicked the other day, and I realized Wounded Knee was in 1890, which would (tragically) put it at the exact right time for H. to have set it in motion when he arrived stateside from Mother Russia. Granted, wrong location, but not by that much.
Back to work!
Bill, tall and grim and as gangly as a wind-stripped scarecrow--a real cowboy--was out on the floor, telling jokes, passing out beer, and trying not to step on folks' toes when the young woman came in.
She stopped just inside the doorway just like most people did, first time they walked into the bar, because the first thing anybody saw was the dusty old diorama of a papier-mache caveman, dragging his woman with one hand and fending off a saber-toothed tiger with the other.
Bill lurched over to the door; if anything, his bad leg seemed to add speed in wobbling across the cracked linoleum and around the battered wood tables. He smiled down at the woman. "'Lo there, missy. You're letting out all my cold air, you know."