I have my doubts about being able to do this daily, but i’m gonna try dammit!
One of the most important things for me, as a writer, is to sit down and write everyday. It doesn’t matter what, i just need to get some words on a page. If it happens on the current story i’m working on — cool — if not, i don’t beat myself up over it. My goal is either 5 pages or 1500 words, which is minuscule, but totally do-able.
Anyway… One of the things on the list i got recently from my publisher was Erotic Westerns, so i’ve been thinking about this story for about 2 months…i still haven’t worked out any kind of outline. I know there will be a gunfight, a whorehouse, and a train (or Stagecoach) robbery…that’s it. I’m still world building and developing characters.
Well, i didn’t my goal yet today, i only hit 1350 words, but i’m also not done yet…
The story is still untitled and was inspired by this pic :
His spurs chimed as he turned on his heel and sauntered back toward the poker players. The half-rotted wooden planks beneath his feet creaked and wobbled as he moved. Jack remained cool and calm as he leaned forward and swept the pot. His sandy brown hair matted with sweat, despite the tonic. The trademark dimples, which according to many a lady were as dangerous as his pistols, slid into his cheeks and those plush pink lips arched turning the expression into more of a smirk than smile.
“Gentleman.” Dash acknowledged all of the players sitting at the table, even those who were no longer in the game. He counted heads, six to one, outnumbering his friend. The smell of blood had hit the air, and the poker table had gathered a few bloodthirsty spectators. “Mind if I sit in this hand?”
“Not at all.” Jack gestured to a currently occupied chair. “Have a seat.”
“Deviltry is what this is,” the man slobbered. “You goddamned son of a bitch!”
Dash tipped his hat back. “Deviltry?”
“You must temper your reply, Dashell. Our friend, Mr. Baird, here is just a little weak north of the ears.”
Baird had a face puckered like wet sheepskin, tinged red with the heat of anger. He rocked forward in his chair, fists gripped tight around his cards. Yellowed teeth clenched, air whistling through them in a quick, harsh pant. The man was about to explode and Jack only encouraged him. Baird grumbled about the loss of his gold and being cheated, but didn’t bother to cease play.
“Haven’t you had enough?”
“My friend, there is never enough.”
“I meant of this game.”
Jack lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “Game? Poker is a science, Dashell, the highest court in Texas said so.”
Baird tossed his cards and slammed the table, folding his hand. “Goddamned son of a bitch! I knew you was cheatin’!”
How he had gotten ‘cheating’ out of ‘science’ was anyone’s guess. “You see,” nodded Jack. “If brains were dynamite, he wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose! Baird, need I remind you, you watched the dealer count and shuffle the deck yourself.”
His face ticked. He fondled the holstered gun hanging on his hip. “Well…shit.”