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Mslexia #Novel Competition Longlist and Blog Hiatus! #writing

My novel is longlisted for the Mslexia Novel Competition for unpublished women writers.

This is stunning, and has caught me with my draft in a mess.

I sent in 5k, and have to now send in about 85k by the 30th of Oct (Of this year!).

As you can imagine, it’s going to be an insane caffeine-fueled waking nightmare. (I know I won’t place– but this is a great opportunity to show my MS to some very esteemed judges, and I don’t want them coughing hairballs. Besides I get to polish my novel in a very short space– what’s not to like?)

How is your #Novel coming along? #writing

I’m writing a novel, but I’m not a novelist yet. Not only am I not sure of making any money on it, I’m entirely unsure it would see light of day at all. I’ve written 400k words in multiple drafts, and I’m told I might just need to shift around a few chapters here and there before I can consider it ready to be looked at.

How Important is Setting in #Fiction ? #writing #wepff

Have you read the book Perfume? Would you read it, based on the excerpt? Why, why not?

Based on the excerpt from my WIP, would you like to more about the character and how she fits into this setting? What did you like about the descriptions? What can be done better? How can the setting show off the character better?

As a reader, how important is setting to you when you read a piece of fiction?

Ever take Cues from Your Subconscious?

“I always imagine it like a whole load of plates spinning, and you’ve got the plan, the research and the plot, and you’ve got to kind of keep them spinning and constantly moving between one and the other.” What about you? What role does the subconscious play in your life, as a writer, reader, artist, gardener, mason, engineer, or whatever it is that you do? Do you ever take cues from your subconscious?

#AtoZchallenge #flashfiction: Lately he’d been feeling

Saturday nights like this, Don returned early, and tried not to get wasted. Martha didn’t like it. But today they’d filled his glass each time he’d drained it, and he could smell whiskey everywhere, on his sofa, his clothes, even his socks and shoes as he tugged them off. He felt, warm, fuzzy on the outside, but the booze hadn’t dulled the shrapnel of pain caught in his chest.

Not that he wanted to talk about it, but lately, he’d been feeling like a dinosaur at a fun fair– on display, paint chipped in places, no choice but to stay put.