We write. We revise.
Later that day Erik moved his belongings downstairs into Le Placard with the help of two new acquaintances, Augustin and Henry. His cot fit well enough, and his steamer trunk. But once everything was tightly packed inside, he could not even open the door all the way. To get in and out of the room he had to climb onto the bed. He asked his friends to divide up and store the rest of his belongings, the table, chairs, and armoire. He had really fallen from grace this time and it was his own fault. On his first night sleeping inside the closet, he lay on his back staring up into the stifling darkness. Moonlight pierced through the holes in the door, taking the shape of a crusader’s cross. Erik decided it was very much like the cell of a medieval cleric, a Parcier who had taken a vow of poverty. ~Excerpt from 38 Umbrellas, an historical novel-in-progress about Erik Satie by Michelle Fogle.
The title company’s walls were thick and soundproof, and made the inside offices naturally cool, without air blowing all over your face. My office was in the former freezer, which Titulo called the map room. The map room contained more than maps, it also housed title histories, deed copies, and grantor indices all the way back to Ponce de Leon’s first house. It smelled archivey. Titulo gave me an industrial desk, probably the icehouse foreman’s, with one drawer and a brown dome desk lamp shaped like a German soldier’s helmet. Most of the time I worked alone, in a room that was quiet and still, two things I valued most. ~Excerpt from Bad Men Among White, a novel-in-progress by Mark Radoff
Harold hated his inner voice. It criticized and taunted him incessantly. The voice never provided any sort of advance warning or guidance, yet was the first to remind him that it had known all along of his impending failure at whatever endeavor he was pursuing at the moment. In that respect the voice sounded like his father. Harold stopped just inside the doors of the church and turned suddenly as if someone had tapped him on his shoulder. He stared at the crowd on the sidewalk and wondered where his father was at this very moment. Would he be impressed his son was now a lawyer at the largest firm in the San Joaquin Valley? Doubtful, snapped his inner voice. ~Excerpt from San Joaquin Suicide Hotline, a novel-in-progress by James Albert