I am nearing THE END of this eternal re-write. This novel was first attempted years ago, that’s many, many years ago. Earlier drafts got me two different agents and almost sold twice. Yet, it didn’t sell. And it’s a heart novel, meaning it’s near and dear to my heart. Someone once called it my therapy novel. Truth? Some of it has been therapy. Not in the way implied by my critic, but it has had therapeutic moments. It’s been a slow, difficult re-write with lots of angst, tons of learning, and more than a few tears shed. But, The End is in sight. And yet—
The words come slowly to me on a good day. On bad days—words come slower than a slow snail’s slowest slog. Whew! Which situation do you think I’m in now? Yup. S-L-O-W. You’d think the words would be coming faster, wouldn’t you? And yet—
I sit at the computer and type a few words then come to a section that must be a blend of the old draft and the new one. The words drip out of my fingers and nearly dry up then, something comes along to spur me forward. This blog post, for one. I’m using it to spur me onward to the end.
I’m going to share a snippet of my dystopian story with the working title: My Soul to Keep. It’s the story of two mothers and two daughters, though primarily it’s Miranda’s story. First, a short description:
Miranda Clarke, daughter of America’s premier preacher-politician, leads a charmed life—until she breaks the rules. Haunted by family secrets and hunted by cloned assassins, Miranda must destroy the government controlled by her own family before the Angels of Death destroy her and all of democracy.
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My Soul To Keep
Lynette M Burrows
The giant bronze statue of the angel of death loomed over Miranda Clarke’s shoulder. Was it the statue or was it the tiny flare of rebellion that made her not want to enter the Fellowship Center’s crowded foyer? The statue, Shield of Mercy, Hand of Justice, stood at the grand entrance as it had for all Miranda’s life. With Uncle Sam sheltered in her great black wings, the angel hovered over the fallen body of president-elect Franklin Delano Roosevelt and pointed to the pile of ash where the assassin had stood.
“Is something wrong?” Tom, her bodyguard, came to stand too close.
What could be wrong with becoming a Guardian? She hid her fears behind her angelic-daughter-of-the-councilor smile. “I need to powder my nose.”
“They’ll be seating your family in five minutes. Tell me what you need, I’ll have someone fetch it.”
I need to not be the councilor’s daughter. “There are some things a girl must do on her own.” She dove into a sea of elbows and padded shoulders, big purses, and bigger hats. Her bodyguard followed. He always did.
Hundreds of men in sharkskin suits and women in taffeta dresses filled the foyer waiting for the auditorium doors to open. Clusters of them here and there held onto their hats, an assortment of felt, feathers, netting and ruffles, and peered up at the mural-painted dome five stories above. They reeked of aftershave lotions, cheap colognes, and forbidden cigarette smoke.
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Thanks to hubpages.com and DowntownLynchburg.com for the images. These images are part of my inspirations board on Pinterest. If you’re curious, take a look here.
I’ll be posting stories about my mentors, my process, and some of the history that inspired different scenes and themes of this book over the next few months. And of course, you’re all invited to the party when I finally type THE END!
I hope you enjoyed this taste of things to come. As always, I deeply appreciate the time you give to read and comment on this blog. Thank You!