For this blogfest, you are required to post 500-1000 words of your story’s or novel’s “hook” and then go visit the other participants’ sites to critique their hooks in turn. I had a tough time choosing what to post. For one thing, I’ve been mostly writing plays and screenplays lately. For another, while I really feel St. Peter in Chains is a strong work, I get the sense it’s not for everyone; most blogfest people (from what I gather) write and are interested in sci-fi and fantasy.
I finally decided to post the first part of my novella The K-Pro, which is one of the projects I hope to finish over the year (it’s on my list of goals). It is, at the outside, a sort of paranormal romantic comedy, if there is such a thing. Up-and-coming British actor David Styles finds himself hopelessly entangled with Andra Martineau, who is a Kleidouchos Propilaya, or K-Pro for short, a sort of granter of wishes. Andra is convinced David called her, that he must want something, but he insists he didn’t. And Andra begins to realize there’s something very different about David . . . Something even he doesn’t know . . .
This, then, is the opening of The K-Pro:
The scent of the hydrangeas carried across the wide lawn, pushed along by the ocean breeze. The combined smell of flowers and salt water, along with the remainder of uneaten dinner littering the table and the musk of wine on everyone’s breath, was enough to turn David’s stomach. He sat back and watched the sky grow steadily darker, idly wondering how long he was expected to stay.
No one tried to talk to him. Everyone here knew him too well for that, thank God. They’d been filming for a week and staying in the house—well, the principals had been staying in the house; everyone else was in trailers or local hotels—but soon they would finish with this bit and move on to another location. In the meantime, nearly everyone was looking at this as a sort of paid holiday. Everyone but David, who took the work too seriously to relax. He’d been an actor for eight years, but most people wouldn’t know it since he’d only begun to be noticed over the past two or three. His working philosophy was to keep his head down and barrel forward, ever building what looked to become a fair-sized empire if his luck continued.
“David Styles,” said Alfred from across the table, drawing the words out so the name was long and somehow heavy. There were more wine stains in front of Alfred’s seat than anywhere else on the white linen cloth. “What are you thinking about over there?”
Well, almost everyone knew him too well to try striking up a conversation. Or more likely, Alfred knew perfectly well and simply didn’t care.
“Tomorrow’s scenes,” David said.
“Rehearsing your lines?”
David made a noncommittal noise and pushed back his chair. “Early call time.”
“Beauty sleep,” said Alfred. “Who needs it? Let the makeup artists earn their keep, I say.”
On Alfred’s other side, Liz turned. “They earn their keep on you even when you’ve had enough sleep,” she told Alfred, and he laughed, too long and too loudly.
David stood and heads swung his way. A chorus of “good night” rained around him. No one tried to stop him, to talk him out of leaving. He exited the patio, now reliant on the lanterns that lined its margins, and went inside to be enfolded by the warm, dim glow of chandeliers and the chill of too much air-con.
It was a lovely house, an old and grand estate that was as much a movie star as David had ever wanted to be. In fact, the damn house probably had more credits than David did. But not for long, he told himself. No, he was on the rise now; after this project there were three others in the wings, and his agent had new scripts for him to look at almost daily. He should be pleased. He was pleased. His life was turning out to be everything he’d aspired to.
But as he trudged up the richly carpeted stairs, David felt tired. Overextended. He needed a real holiday, he supposed, and reasoned that maybe he’d finally reached a point in his career when he could afford to take one without missing any opportunities.
Did he have any down time between this project and the next? He’d ask Walter in the morning.
He reached his room, a nice room with big windows but no balcony. He wasn’t the lead, after all. It was an ensemble cast, but his name wouldn’t even be above the title. Not yet. Not this project, and maybe not the next, but that was coming. That, and the room with the balcony, and creative input on the scripts, a producer credit . . . All of it was on the horizon.
But for now, this would do. Even though he’d showered before dinner, David hopped in again. He couldn’t sleep without having showered first. Quirk. Kind of thing that would turn up in a magazine one day. He made it quick, pulled on clean boxers and went to lie down. Alone.
Not that it had to be that way; David had come far enough that he had good chances of company in bed when he wanted it. But he found it to be like rich foods—too much indulgence gave him a sour stomach. That, and almost a decade with Marjorie had made him the relationship equivalent of lactose intolerant. He’d only recently shaken her loose—his broadening prospects necessitated keeping his options open—and if there was a tiny amount of guilt preventing him from moving forward on that front, David supposed that was normal. He’d get over it and so would she. Better to have done it now than when his career really started snowballing. Then it would have been so much tabloid fodder. He’d done them both a favor, really, breaking it off when he did.
These are the things David told himself as he drifted off to sleep, alone in the oversized bedroom of an old English estate house that was serving as the shooting location for a movie in which he was, if not starring, at least majorly featured.
Name on the poster. Second to last, but they were alphabetical. Not much he could do about that aside from possibly change his name.
No, that was good. Easy to say, and no one was likely to misprint it.
And Margie had been proud of him, she’d said as much, and a little bit jealous of David’s growing popularity, though she’d never said that of course.
David wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep until he woke up. His last coherent thought had been along the lines of how stupid it was Margie had spelled her full name with a “j” but her nickname with a “g,” something that had always bothered him. And as he opened his eyes (fan sites having reliably informed him that his clear blue eyes were his best feature), he imagined for a moment that Margie was there, in the bed. But no. She wasn’t.
Margie was blond, you see. The head sharing David’s pillow was auburn.