A writing meme

A writing meme by way of j_cheney–this has been sitting in my files for ages, actually, only I didn’t get around to posting until now.

The opening of the oldest story I still have a copy of:

(This would be circa 1980.)

Robert Brewster and his daughter Louise sat in the small one-room apartment. The former was hunched over a tiny desk, examining assorted papers and documents. The one-time governor had blond hair, but touches of gray were slowly creeping in. His face was once youthful, but this youth had given way to lines of worry. Only the man’s eyes remained eternally young, and within their deep, blue pools was an ever-burning fire of determination.

These eyes were perhaps the only visible signs of Louise’s relation to her father. All other features were different, from the brown hair that barely touched her shoulders, to the small young face and petite but sturdy frame.

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The opening of the first story I sold:

(From “Cherilly’s Law,” which appeared in Leroni of Darkover in 1993.)

Darian and Ryll walked through the fields, not speaking, not even allowing their minds to touch. They moved with the same gait though, the same slight slouch, and their feet hit the soft earth together.

As the sun edged over the distant mountains, Darian broke the silence. “I am sorry, my brother,” he said.

Ryll did not look up. “It is not your fault. Besides, I should be glad to leave.”

“But you’re not.”

“No. I suppose I still hoped Father could learn to love me.”

“He’d send me away, too, if he could.”

“I know,” Ryll said, and looked resentfully at the copper chain encircling Darian’s wrist.

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The opening of my current work in progress:

(From Thief Eyes, which I’ve returned to working on this week, and which is thus very much still a work in progress. I figure posting this meme forces me to publicly commit to getting back to work. :-))

I will not allow it.

I will not be traded like a horse or a sheep, given to the first man who asks for my hand. I will determine my fate, I and none else, as my father promised me long ago.

My father’s brother Hrut says none may determine their fate, not even Odin One-Eye and his kin. He says that fate is a matter for the Ladies at their loom. Hrut is a man. He is a fool.

Yet Hrut says many things. He says I have the eyes of a thief. Other men find me beautiful, with my long legs and long hair, but in all things beautiful, Hrut sees some future–some doom–yet to come.

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