The Authorpreneur Almanac:
365
Adventures in Writing and Entrepreneurship
Tips, ideas, inspiration and features for writers who are also entrepreneurs aka Authorpreneur's
I've had several lovely people tell me that they've read Solomon's Secrets, were hooked and now want to read the next one.
Well, I'm afraid I'm still writing the next book, Gabriel's Game.
Gabriel's Game will be two books in one. The first novella is;
Gabriel's Game, Part 1: The White Queen
I estimate it will be published around Easter 2015.
The second novella will be;
Gabriel's Game, Part 2: The Black Knight
Estimated for completion in 2016
But it is horrible having to wait for something, so here's a special treat for you. It's only the first draft, so may change a little, but here is the first chapter of
Gabriel's Game, Part 1: The White Queen
Nicosia, August 2014
 |
| Clive Owen as Tom Sheridan (source: www.flickr.com) |
Tom Sheridan
pushed himself from the chair and shook his legs out, wrung his hands, rolled
his shoulders and made for the window.
Sat for hours, he’d slept there last night, only got up once to go to
the bathroom and drink a bland vending machine coffee from a polystyrene cup.
At
the window, he could feel the heat of the day building and filtering in through
the blinds. He twiddled the plastic pole and the louvers opened, painting
stripes of warm daylight across the bedroom. He squinted against the
brightness, yawned and rubbed his chin, scratching at three days’ worth of
growth. He ran his fingers through his
hair, shaking his hands through it, ruffling it, it felt sweaty and heavy on
his scalp. Everything felt heavy.
The
chemical stench of the hospital seeped into his skin, he looked away from the
view over the dusty car park and looked down at himself. He sniffed and turned
his nose up, “Ew!” his own body odour masked by the stench of sickness in the air.
These
last days had been a haze. His life, such as it had been, was on hold. He’d
come back to Cyprus as soon as the doctor called, flown in on the first
available flight. The doctor had said she’d regained consciousness briefly and asked
one question; ‘Where’s Tom?’
He
shook his leaden limbs out with a deep sigh and looked back across the room. A
few seconds to breathe, then time to resume his vigil.
She
hadn’t moved. The blue waffle blanket continued to lift and fall steadily, the
low regular beep of machinery always in the background, white noise, he hardly
noticed its rhythm. It had been constant and steady since he’d arrived from
London - it was a good thing, it meant her condition was stable.
Tendrils
of wires and tubes trussed her into the bed, her mass of blonde curls spilling
out over the pillows, taking root, part of the machine.
He crossed the room, her features frozen in time. As he approached, her eyelids flickered. He hesitated, immobilised by the sudden change. A change so minute he questioned whether he’d imagined it. Closer, he dragged the chair to the bed, fell into it and shuffled forwards, a mounting sadness raking up his throat. Slumping over, he rested his head on the folds of the blanket and it let it loll against her hip.
He crossed the room, her features frozen in time. As he approached, her eyelids flickered. He hesitated, immobilised by the sudden change. A change so minute he questioned whether he’d imagined it. Closer, he dragged the chair to the bed, fell into it and shuffled forwards, a mounting sadness raking up his throat. Slumping over, he rested his head on the folds of the blanket and it let it loll against her hip.
Moisture
blurred his vision. Tears gathered on his lashes and swelled in his throat. A
globe rolled down his cheek, traced a path around his jaw.
“I’m
so sorry, Sasha,” he mumbled.
More
tears chased the first. He swept them aside, swallowed them back. This wasn’t
the time, he had to focus. He had work to do and an impossible choice to make.
Despite
getting plenty of sleep, he was weary, his strength fading, anxiety and despair
sapping his energy. His eyes drifted closed and he breathed in the residue of
her familiar smell, nuzzling his face against her, a pet seeking affection. He
wanted to feel close to her, to connect to her silent body, to know that she
was still in there, fighting. Always fighting.
He
was jolted awake by something knocking his shin. He glanced down, it was his
rucksack. Whatever he decided, the tools of his trade were all in there.
Should
he run? Should he carry out his orders? Should he take her with him?
My Characters
I'm sure many writers picture
particular actors when they imagine their characters. If you can imagine who
might play your hero's and heroine's if your story ever became a movie, it can
be a really helpful way to describe the way your characters talk, move and
carry themselves.
When I imagine Tom Sheridan,
I see Clive Owen.
I find it useful to
have a Pinterest board of all the actors in my stories open on one screen as I
write on the other.
If my latest book, Gabriel's
Game, ever were made into a movie this cast list would be amazing!
