Good intentions might, or might not, pave the road to hell, but they don’t take you one metre down the path to a happier number on the scale.
Not when your jog around the track at the park ends up at the local Dairy Queen and your fifteen minute stint on the rowing machine has you pawing through the freezer for the that ice cream sandwich you swore you weren’t going to eat.
If only all it took to fit into your thin clothes were good intentions, but I hear it takes something called discipline.
Something I don’t have 🙂
After months of using Covid-19 as an excuse to procrastinate, I finally forced myself to sit down and start working on the last book in my Blood Bond Trilogy. Thanks to the previous books, I already have an MC. I know what he looks like, how he dresses, where he works, what he drinks, and who his love interest will be, but…how to start?
Write what you know, right?
I trolled through my memories, more years of memories than I’d like to admit, and came up with a scene, something that happened eons ago. A tourist on my first trip to Ireland, I was checking out a small display case in some church basement and I heard a man talking behind me. His voice, his accent, truly charming. Naturally, I turned around, and the real world being what it is, the man was nowhere near as attractive as his voice.
Perfect. There’s my attention-grabbing first paragraph. Enticing accent, alluring voice—hail the love interest.
I haven’t been to Ireland in decades. I can barely remember the accent now and I have no idea what expressions or slang they’re using in Dublin these days.
Write what you know?
I don’t know how this character speaks. There’s no way I can write dialogue for him, not without spending weeks researching speech patterns in Irish novels.
I’m in awe of authors who can create dialogue for characters of a differing ethnicity, nationality, or time line than their own. I have no idea how they do it. How exactly does a blacksmith in the eighteenth century speak, or an alien in the twenty-fourth?
Back to the drawing board. Ditch the accent and rewrite the first page, so far, the only page.
Write what you know?
What I know is, I never should have started writing this trilogy 🙂
To paraphrase Jeff Foxworthy, you know you’re old when—
1. You’ve never heard of half the shows nominated at the Emmys.
2. You sit down to put your shoes on.
3. You think TikTok is a new clock.
4. You remember when Amazon only sold books.
5. You’re phone takes you aside, and says, “Look, we’re really sorry. We know you’re one of the dinosaurs who still buys music on Google Play, but we’re switching over to YouTube music.” And you say, “YouTube has music?”
Excuse me, but—I’m old.
Tom Ellis has been working the British accent and devilish charm for five seasons now. As Lucifer Morningstar, he takes us into a world where the Devil is real—and runs a club in L.A.
In the tradition of Death Takes a Holiday and Meet Joe Black, the Devil is on vacation. As one would expect, he’s keen on all the things our mothers warned us about, liquor, drugs, and sex in all its many incarnations.
Unexpectedly, this Devil wears a three-piece suit, plays the piano, and has daddy issues. The ruler of hell spends his time solving crimes with an LAPD detective and chatting with his therapist—when he’s not otherwise engaged.
According to this Lucifer, hell is fueled by guilt. Humans torturing themselves in endless loops of their worst sins. No brimstone and fire, just people blaming themselves for eternity.
Damnation based on human psychology; I like it. That’s why I watch the show. Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the devil looks like this…