Peek of the Week

Here begins a new Monday series entitled “Peek of the Week,” a clever rhyme I came up with on the bus this morning. Every Monday, I’ll give you an update on the BP and share a little excerpt from the section I’m working through.

Yesterday, I made it to the end of the third draft. It’s not time to celebrate yet. The BP changed so much during this draft that the end is now in need of some major rewriting–and I haven’t got a clue how to do it.

So this week’s project: rework what happens after the championships. I have an idea, but if I go with this idea, some major rewriting of the entire last third of the BP will ensue…more to come on that.

For now, here’s a peek at the last twenty pages, as they now stand:

Paper lanterns lined the path to the club, and the trees were strung with lights. Chris’s mother let him take her arm, but did not look at him. Her hand was limp and cold as he led her across the yard toward the club.

All at once, the crowd fell silent, and Chris looked back. Charlie was coming up the path. He wore a tuxedo and his hair was slicked back from his ravaged forehead. His scar stood out like a mountain ridge.

Chris’s throat constricted. He tightened his grip on his mother’s arm and steered her off the path.

Charlie stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to face the crowd. They were silent, waiting as he struggled to compose his face. It must be difficult for him, Chris thought bitterly, to figure out how he was expected to feel in this moment.

Charlie’s expressions shifted and clashed until his face settled somewhere between humility and triumph.

“Good evening,” he said, and paused.

Hatred flowed up through Chris until his fingers tingled with it.


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