Attached To A Bunji Cord.

You know that great idea I had yesterday, the one about Twittering a romance novel? Sorry to disappoint you all. I failed to come up with a hook-you-in opening line that’s short enough to fit the 140. It’s an interesting challenge, one I’m sure would have suited Hemmingway, but understatement and economy do not Oldbitey make.

Well, duh, you say.

Sigh. I’m one of those writers who does stuff in big chunks of a show already in progress, I don’t plot. I have the A and the Z (with Z equaling the Happily Ever After/emotionally satisfying ending), but not much of the alphabet in between. Every opening sentence I came up with was too freakin’ long. I got to thinking what it might have been like if Hemmingway had written a romance, one that adhered to the RWA’s code of the Happily Ever After.

Then I just got to wondering if the 140 frugality was something I could actually do.

I’ve got to finish rewriting my IASPR (International Association for the Study of Popular Romance) presentation so I don’t look like an eed-yet when I pubic-I-mean public-speak (again, thanks for that memory Brobitey). Did I mention I was presenting my masters crap at a conference? Yeah. I’m surprised about that too and since that’s the case, an endeavor such as Hemmingwaying my way into Twitter is not the most efficient way to spend my time. I mean, writing And She Was and facebook take up enough of my precious time as it is. Do I truly need to add Twitter to my time suck?

You just know I’m gonna give it the old college try.

For all you non-twits out there, here’s what I’ve got so far:
The way Colin drank should have been her first clue the evening wasn’t going well. The meteorite should have been her second. The chunk of blistering space crud punched a hole through the roof, blew a fissure in the ceiling and set the dining room table alight. Nonna’s hand-embroidered tablecloth, the one that traveled from Linguaglossa, Ellis island, Athens (Ohio, not Greece) to Santa Fe went up in a flare of red-orange.(yep, that there’s my tricky sentence) The scotch Colin threw turned the flames blue. The bowl of pasta Ness upended transformed the fire into a thick, garlic-scented pool of tomato sauce that bubbled and smothered the blaze with a hiss.

Gosh, OB, that’s not very romantic or Hemmingwayesque.

Cheese and bacon, give me a chance! This is my first try at field dressing an animal of any sort.

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