Sorry for the absence
I've been in Canada at my parents' summer cottage, and then I left the children there to go to New York with my husband to look for apartments. What an... interesting... experience. Manhattan is the only place I know where when you tell a leasing agent that you're willing to spend $5000 a month on rent, you feel cheap and shabby. And the apartment he shows you looks it too. Fortunately, we managed to find an apartment we can live with, and that hopefully the children can live with, although one of them right now is digging her heels in, determined to dislike everything about New York and our move ahead. Sigh. Since I'm feeling my own anxiety about our move, it's hard to keep my spirits buoyed up for my children, but I suppose that is what being a mother is all about.I'm retreating into my book which is still one scene and about 2,000 words from the end, but the first 110 pages are complete and revised and so I'm hopeful I can send this in to my editor when I said I would, which is in five days. Eek! And then on to my novella which will be part of an 'Italian Summer' anthology. And we move in a month! More eek.
Here is another sneak peek at my work in progress. This is the opening of the prologue:
I’m sorry.
The two words seemed to reverberate through the room, even though the man who’d spoken them had gone.
I’m sorry.
There had been a touch of compassion to the doctor’s voice, a thread of pity that had sent helpless rage coursing through Khaled as he lay there, prostrate, and watched the doctor shake his head, smile sadly, and leave. Leave Khaled with his shattered knee, his shattered career. His broken dreams.
Outside thick grey clouds pressed heavily downward upon London, obscuring the city view with their dank presence. Prince Khaled el Farrar turned his head away from the window. His fists bunched uselessly on the hospital bed sheets as pain ricocheted through him. He’d refused pain killers; he wanted to know what he was dealing with.
Now he knew: nothing. No amount of surgery or physical therapy could restore his rugby career or his ruined knee, or give him a future. A hope. At twenty-eight, he was finished.
posted by Kate Hewitt at
7:59 PM
