8 +SENTENCES GOT ALL HAL LONGLEAT

ARGH! 

This week has been full of work related work and a very cool new summer house that we had erected at the bottom of the garden.

He-who-must-not-be-named is off on the school journey to the Isle of Wight and even that is putting a dent in my writing hours.

I loved making blogging the focus for April and May but June - apart from time spent on the novel - this month has been more Wreck-it than Write-it.

I didn't sign up for the Weekend Writing Warrior's creative extravaganza but I hope all the 8s are great ;)

Just to prove I haven't been entirely idle I am posting (a few more than 8) sentences from my MG wip:

Ex-stableboy, 10 year-old, Hal Longleat, struggles to adapt to life in a knight’s household when a vicious page's determined to force him out  

“I DON'T CARE!” William shouted, “I don’t want to get there at all. I was happy at Calchester with my uncle.” He stood on one foot, with his hand resting on his hip where his sword should be. “And, I STILL say… you don’t know where we’re going.”

“We’re going to Cawvin Castle, in Ravendale.”

If there had only been Reynold and Jack travelling with him, Hal would have gotten away with the lie. They nodded. They turned away until William growled.

“HA! And where Is Cawvin Castle?" asked William. “Where is Ravendale, precisely?”

Hal spun around, and he pointed. “THAT WAY!” he yelled. 

I plan to get back to the proper routine next Tuesday - Happy Writing.

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS HALE IS DRAWN TO DARRAH

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As I'm only a weekend writer of Romance, Darrah is still having trouble with Sark Hale Tarla. In a time long past in our history, a Sarkisian ship is stranded on Earth. Assimilation is at an early stage but it has not proven to be an easy option for either people. Now, Hale has been assigned to Darrah and her arm of men. His role is to smooth over any diplomatic - or worse - problems that might arise in the Outlands, where the Sarkisians were allowed to settle, when they are sent to find the missing human heir to the Thorn Throne, Erishdren. Rogue Sarkisians are thought to have been behind the abduction.

He absorbed enough warmth directly from the weak sun when he turned his face higher and tried to ignore the corona of energy radiating from her.

 With the edge removed from his craven need, he opened himself to fissioning edge of the complex energy source he recognised too well. It already echoed at his core. He drew to mind the cries of the young warrior who’d been separated from the body of her comrades. Recalled the weakness that had drawn him a forest clearing long ago. Darrah’s slow fading. The Fates were cruel weavers if they had–again–tangled his life with the girl he had rescued only so he would be the one who snared her, and drained all the bright from her soul.

DONALD MAASS WRITE TIP #87

In any MC scene, ask: What does your MC not want to admit, acknowledge or face right now? Force it on him. Let it hurt.

Hale saved her life once. Now he is sure he is fated to end it. He is drawn to Darrah but he doesn't believe she will survive his attentions. 

HOW IS YOUR MC SUFFERING?

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIOR - 8 SENTENCES DRAWN and GENRE

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 As I'm only a weekend writer of Romance, Darrah is still having trouble with Sark Hale Tarla. In a time long past in our history, a Sarkisian ship is stranded on Earth. Assimilation is at an early stage but it has not proven to be an easy option for either people. Now, Hale has been assigned to Darrah and her arm of men. His role is to smooth over any diplomatic - or worse - problems that might arise in the Outlands, where the Sarkisians were allowed to settle, when they are sent to find the missing human heir to the Thorn Throne, Erishdren. Rogue Sarkisians are thought to have been behind the abduction.

He needed no breeze to carry the warm scent of her to him. After all the time restraining his nature, allowing the chemicals that created her aura to flood through his open pores was intoxicating. Fine hairs feathered out from her tightly woven plait and the scent of her chestnut soap flew from them. But, the oiled leather of her armour, particularly the guards that protected her wrist, added musk and shame into the already heady combination. The layers of hide also hid the circular indentations she called pock marks.

Closing his eyes didn’t help Hale forget the vibrancy that coursed through her it enhanced his other senses. He tried to forget the glide of her leg between his but the best he could manage was to focus on her weight as she pinned him to the ground. He groaned.

DONALD MAASS WRITE TIP 81

What does your genre get wrong? Fix it. What do fans of your genre expect? Sell them something else, or add something extra.

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS - 8 SENTENCES ON SUNDAY

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As I am a weekend-only writer of romance, Hale is still having trouble with Darrah. 
This section continues on from last week. Hale has been observing Darrah since she pinned him to the ground to teach him a lesson - to prove she could fight him without causing herself harm. But once she had him pinned she kissed him. Darrah initiated skin contact? The experience has left Hale intoxicated and raw.

Her relief was obvious as she relaxed when she identified the man who stood behind her. Observing this, he experienced what felt like a skewer snake burrowing into his flesh, but was probably something more barbed instead. Envy? Need? Hunger?

Hale needed no breeze to carry the warm scent of her to him. After all this time, stranded on this world, allowing the chemicals that created the aroma of her aura to flood his open pores was intoxicating. She was woodland and ripe fruit and sweet, sweet sugar.

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS - 8 SENTENCES ON SUNDAY

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As I am a weekend-only writer of romance, Darrah is still having trouble ignoring Hale.

Balanced on an outcrop on the ridge, some distance away, the overlapping tiles on the soles of his shoes curving to provide effective grip, Hale watched Darrah track through the trees.

Like a natural predator, she moved swiftly, stealthily, without disturbing the habitat. Had she always been this skilled in the forest? Was this the area of her training she had excelled at?  Is this why they had selected her to find heir apparent, Erishden?

He wondered at the easy finger that stroked the bark of the tree, and he smiled at the dexterity of her friend who jumped away when she spun to face him raising her short bow and deadly arrow in one deliciously smooth action. He heard her Factor whispered, “Koman, Darrah? Is something wrong?”

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS - 8 SENTENCES ON SUNDAY

If you are interested in follow this link: WWR

As I am a weekend-only writer of romance, Darrah is still having trouble ignoring Hale.

Magpie’s treasure! The Sarkisian reflected every facet of a male she had ever been interested in, instead of the freak he really was.

She needed to bathe. An ice cold waterfall might do it. Head low enough to rest on the buckle that held her cloak in place, Darrah gripped her bow and breathed deeply to gentle the tremors that still shook her, running through the Articles of War and the Creeds of Peace she traced the grooves in the bark of the tree.

“Komantak of The Suoliak should not be guilty of unclean or scandalous actions for in this should they incur punishment such that the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve,” she recited. “Accepting the touch of the Sarkisian would stack as both unclean and scandalous,” she added aloud.

When the touch came, hot on the heel of her thought, Darrah turned. Bow high and steady, arrow straight and sharp, she held her breath before she collected her thoughts.

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS - 8 SENTENCES ON SUNDAY

If you are interested in follow this link: WWR

As I am a weekend-only writer of romance, Darrah is still having trouble ignoring Hale.

She leaned against a tree, halfway back to the camp. Before she faced her men, she needed to give herself a few well-worded orders. The man’s ability to reflect and intensify emotions was a biological low-blow. But, the Sarkisian’s range of subtle, hormone-enhanced scents were no more than perfume on a courtesan. The healthy glow of his skin was the bait. The shifting silk of his hair begging to be stroked was the distraction. And the warmth that surrounded him in his aura? That was the trap.