Tonight, to my utter surprise, I opened my e-mail and found I actually had a new one. (Yes, you have no idea how rarely that happens if I don't e-mail the person first.) It was from Eric Laing, a writer looking for a critique . . . by me. I was 1.) flattered and 2.) completely unprepared, this being my first offer for a crit in the history of my blog, and I took him on. Currently, I'm working my way through his manuscript, THE LITTLEST DREAM. Within the first page there were a few obvious formatting errors (single spaced, italics not underline), but so far it's looking good. I'll update when I'm ready with my critique. And my writing's going great. I'm on Chapter Twelve, with only three more to go! Woohoo!
- RW! (AND ME, GRINGY! God, you always forget about me!
Hey, everyone! I'm stopping by for an update or two. It feels good to be back . . . though I'm sure no one's reading this. Anyway, I'm 3-4 chapters from the end of my novel, which should be done in the next 2-3 weeks. Before the end of August, I believe. The writing's been going insanely fast, I can't even begin to tell you. I stopped typing the novel, and did everything from chapters 7-10 (so far) by hand, and I wrote all four of those chapters in the past week. (Yes, one week!) I'll be sure to update every now and then if I can, but right now my main concern is to finish my book. See you all around!
Together, the Rentable Writer and his sidekick Gringy are on a mission to help aspiring writers everywhere. Will they succeed?
To send something to RW or Gringy: firstname.lastname@example.org — Accepting fiction. Novels, short stories, queries & synopses (for spelling-grammar-punctuation editing, but not professional critique), and any possible question you could have.
My sidekick Gringy and I are here to inspire those writers who wish to break out of their shells ... or who already have, but now need help learning how to fly. (I hate analogies [or is that a deformed metaphor?] like that. Gringy doesn't.)
Random Fact about Me, RW: One of my secret desires is to live in a slush pile -- all that undiscovered crappy goodness.