So…I’m pretty much terrible when it comes to finishing books. I have a bunch of half-written manuscripts that need attention and since I’m almost done with Three Dog Dreaming, it’s time to choose my next victim.
With no other information beyond the first few lines, which should I tackle next:
None of them had died yet. Not like Louise’s father who had become a falling comet, his biomagic-wings reduced to burning tails. Or perhaps that’s just how the newsmachine wanted them to imagine his glorious end.
White feathers on the broken parquet floor. White feathers, blown in from outside. They could be from a piebald pigeon or a lost gull, only they’re too bright and unreal. I crouch down, touch my fingertip to one. Gods.
The gallery was a long narrow room of old stones crudely cemented together. The girls had hung paintings from the rails and made the building’s lack of windows part of its stifling charm. A small bar ran part way down the right wall, then stopped. Someone had set up tables, had covered them with the kind of little finger foods meant to look classy, but were rather obviously limited by budget.
Walk slower. Make it seem like you’re gradually slowing down and it’s totally random and has nothing to do with the weird guy sauntering along behind you.
Also, George, stop talking to yourself.