That’s probably the reason I have 12 started and only 4 finished.
Yep.
But I’ve made a new rule. I can’t start a new one until I finish an old one. So….I just got to type out the first page of my new WIP.
Here’s where you come in – which beginning sounds better to you?
(btw, I believe my new heroine looks a lot like Jennifer Connelly and… I think, my hero might be a Martin Henderson look-alike)
Here ya go:
Whether the bouquet was from a secret admirer, anonymous family member, or stalker with excellent taste, the flowers always curbed the loneliness of the day. She expected them now – on the thirteenth of every month.
And today Paige Emerson needed them more than ever because her control-freak-realtor aunt had completely lost her mind. Paige gripped her cell tighter and repositioned the carnation in the bouquet so she wouldn’t damage it in her frustration.
“You’ve done what?” Paige barely controlled the rise of her voice.
“Oh Paige, this is the nudge you need to finish emptying that house. It only hurts you.”
Paige rolled her eyes to the ceiling and took another long breath. “Marcie, I haven’t even gone through Daddy’s desk, let along Mama’s jewelry. And you’ve told the new owners I’ll be out fo the house in two days? I was supposed to have two more weeks. Are you mad at Uncle Arnold again? Is that why you’re extra pushy?”
“Don’t you bring my stiff-necked husband into this, Paige.” Ah, obviously Uncle Arnold was in the doghouse. “I could have given you four more months and you wouldn’t have finished cleaning out that house. Admit it. They’ve been gone over a year and you still haven’t.” Silence softened her auunt’s words. “I miss them too. Heaven knows I do, but it’s time to let go of this house. You can’t keep paying for two on a teacher’s salary and you could use the money, darlin’. Let it go.”
Paige looked across the empty living room. How could she erase memories by the weekend? She’d worked so hard on her parents’ house, repainting walls marked with years of height measurements and childhood art experiments. She’d carefully packed old photos in storage and scrubbed the carpets until her mother’s rose-scent barely tinted the air. But the hollowed out place in her heart only grew with each piece of furniture she sold. Each trinket tagged with a memory she held to like history facts for her high schoolers – and now, finally, the one thing she held to most was slipping from her hands.
Just like her parents.
Just like the pedestal on which she’d always placed them
OR should I just start with the dialogue. Like this:
“You’ve done what?” Paige Emerson barely controlled the rise of her voice. What had her control-freak-realtor aunt done this time?
“Oh Paige, this is the nudge you need to finish emptying that house. It only hurts you.”
Paige rolled her eyes to the ceiling and took another long breath. “Marcie, I haven’t even gone through Daddy’s desk, let along Mama’s jewelry. And you’ve told the new owners I’ll be out fo the house in two days? I was supposed to have two more weeks. Are you mad at Uncle Arnold again? Is that why you’re extra pushy?”
“Don’t you bring my stiff-necked husband into this, Paige.” Ah, obviously Uncle Arnold was in the doghouse. “I could have given you four more months and you wouldn’t have finished cleaning out that house. Admit it. They’ve been gone over a year and you still haven’t.” Silence softened her auunt’s words. “I miss them too. Heaven knows I do, but it’s time to let go of this house. You can’t keep paying for two on a teacher’s salary and you could use the money, darlin’. Let it go.”
Paige looked across the empty living room. How could she erase memories by the weekend? She’d worked so hard on her parents’ house, repainting walls marked with years of height measurements and childhood art experiments. She’d carefully packed old photos in storage and scrubbed the carpets until her mother’s rose-scent barely tinted the air. But the hollowed out place in her heart only grew with each piece of furniture she sold. Each trinket tagged with a memory she held to like history facts for her high schoolers – and now, finally, the one thing she held to most was slipping from her hands.
Just like her parents.
Just like the pedestal on which she’d always placed them
















