Writerly meme

[lethargic_man]

Well, I posted this friends-locked, and got absolutely no response whatsoever, so I'm reposting it now world-readable in the hope of getting some feedback that might give me motivation. Come on guys, motivate me to write!

autopope wrote:

This appears to be a meme on the wander - write down the first sentence or paragraph of every work of fiction you've currently got sitting in a file waiting for you to finish it:

I don't normally do LJ memes, but this strikes me as something I could potentially get something out of... at the very least alerting me to how cringeworthy some of my openings (fortunately rather more the older ones) are (and how sameish compared to autopope's examples). And maybe it'll give me fresh inspiration on one of these.

Limiting myself to those stories written down far enough to have a proper first line, here's a list in roughly decreasing likelihood of getting finished:

Afterdeath: (very nearly ready to go out)

Who was it said your whole life flashes by the moment before your death? Poppycock! How on earth could they know? I for one was far too busy, wrestling with the steering wheel on Silver Lonnen, tyres all over the place in the sheeting rain - and finally regretting, far, far too late, sticking with a human-drive car.

A Symphony For The Death Of The Universe: (Top of my priority list, but I have no inspiration for it at present)

In this age of ever-diminishing resources, something was consuming an truly inordinate amount. <Aesthetic intersection of ripples>'s symphony took five ticks to compile instead of two. Frowning, e sank a tendril of thought into the Host to investigate. And of course. E should not have been surprised. A party was in swing to celebrate the end of the Universe, with grand spectacles to accompany it.

Castaway: (finished and sent out, but could do with shortening before sending out again)

Gusts of wind rattled half-dead limbs on the scattered trees. Like them, the man trudging up the hill fought the urge to bend. A pole was slung across his shoulders, taut leather strips supporting two dangling buckets of water. His hair, sprouting out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, was wild and grizzled; his beard too. The wind plucked at both, its sound vying with the slopping of water and swishing of clothes - and his cursing at the hill in a voice as weatherworn as his face. "And the same to whoever put the darned trough halfway up it!" The goats nosing half-heartedly at the parched plants ignored him.

The Colours of Thought:

Moon had fled over Surface, more wave-speed than tide. But now came dawn, its thickness slowing Moon's flight, clouding its light; clouding, too, the memory. Comfort reigned, pleasure in staying put. After nightspeed, changeless now seemed the daylight world.

Transhuman Pyramid:

As Bidshika fell silent, Jon's awareness expanded again, and he looked about him. Around the circle the others were leaning back, adding to the crackling of the fire the cracking of joints. Night had now fully fallen, and only the nearest wagons were visible in the firelight. It was snowing gently; the sight shook him and he started abruptly. Calm down, Jon, he told himself. It's only snow. That's all.

Chickensh*t: (flawed; not looking likely to get finished)

Seven a.m., and the gravel scrunching underfoot the only noise. The sky was a cloudless blue - but the prospects for the day grim. The blocky concrete outline of the madgera loomed ahead: the hatchery. He'd had been passing it for weeks, en route to and from the kibbutz's fields. A minor mystery, what went on inside. "You don't want to know" was the most he'd got from his fellow volunteers. Time now to find out first-hand.

On A Pique In Darien: (goodness knows if I'll ever return to this)

Deep conditioning dragged Austin Sunnerlee from dreams of slaughter in time to stop the alarm clock a couple of minutes before it went off.

Ritardando: (with apologies to antipope... but I've lost faith in this one anyway)

"Ye dogs and microfiches, but I'm bored," said Henry. He plumped his head down into his hands. Elbows leaning on the wooden fence, he watched people move through the park below.

The doberman leaning its forepaws on the fence beside him cocked an ear up at this. "Yes, I know," Henry continued, "I could tweak my personality so I'm find something interesting again, but it wouldn't be new. I don't want to go through life repeating old experiences; I want to continually move on to new things."

A Remnant Shall Be Preserved: (Crikey, but this is old... and badly in need of putting into hardboiled narrative)

The impression I received in my first couple of minutes after arriving was that though reading up about Morréan might have enabled me to place him in a cultural setting and a global one, it had in no wise suggested any geographical environment. I suppose my mind must have been a blank on the issue; but even though I had no expectations, what I saw still failed to meet them.