Should You Click On This Blog Post?

Intimate blood v.2

I wrote this book. It’s a novella, really.

I was having a crisis about my fantasy novel (I know, I get emotional when I’m being creative), so I took a short break and wrote this very fluffy piece of murder and revenge.

It’s completely different to anything I’ve written before, so I’m, ah, nervous about releasing it. If I psych myself up enough in the next few days, I’ll put it up for sale on the Kindle store.

But I think the cover looks pretty decent.

And here’s a fiction example, because I like you.

Bad Writing (Don’t Read This! It’s Really, Really Bad!):

My head ached, and the fancy light was so hard for me to bear without complaining. I wished I could have stayed unconscious for this part, because it was really uncomfortable, and I didn’t like it at all. My knees shook, and I observed what there was to see before everything went shadowed.

Her light never was there for long enough of a time for me to really enjoy the glow or see where it was coming from. The air was dusty, like I was breathing in the burst bag of a vacuum.

I was in a really big space, like a box, except it was a building, or it had been before everything had gotten explody and shardy. There were a lot of dead bodies around me, and their arms and legs stuck out from the carnage. Another bomb soared in a big arc over my head.

Then I felt sad, because I realized I was dying again, and I didn’t want to do this right now.

Good Writing:

I was not dead for long this time. The reanimating power surged from my kneecaps. Stupid place to keep her magic, I know, but I didn’t bring myself back to life. The lights around me flickered and spun through the heavy shards of glass and dust that fell, like crashing snowflakes, through the air.

I was in an industrial plant, and the workers, like me, had all died in the attack. I didn’t see what it was this time. The bombs were coming thicker these days, and it wasn’t as interesting to me to classify them as it had been in the beginning. I walked through the carnage of bodies, and the limbs that protruded from the ash and sand were like vicious thorns fallen from grotesque plants.

The whistle of a second missile arced through the air towards my face. I barely had time to grimace in annoyance before my body was blasted in the explosion.

As I died, the throbbing light in my mind blew away the shadows of the night; I knew I was going into the presence of my mistress.

The above is a bit from a story about Paul, who is a very interesting man. I’m working on the piece for a Scribophile contest.

You’ve been reading a blog about writing by Victor Poole. My books, which are about to be updated, so don’t buy them yet, are here. Today is Tuesday, and I just purchased Vellum.

 

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