I never ever post writing on my blog. Weird, huh, since this is um a writing blog.
I guess it's because I think reading novels on a computer screen is annoying. But recently I followed the Loving The Language Blogfest and enjoyed reading some bits and pieces of other people's books. So, today I'm going to post a few short passages from Letters Never Sent for fun.
It's a family saga about the women of the Ritchie family. Here are four five-sentences blurbs from the book:
So many years removed her from it, but when Ruth allowed herself to slip back to that hurt—the hurt that never really left her—she could still hear those sounds. She smelled the blood and the antiseptic clean smell of the Lawton General Hospital maternity wing. She saw the bed and the door and that little waiting room with its orange chair. And it nearly made her sick.
As he and the doctor neared the house, Ailsa’s voice ripped from its walls. The sound pierced through the evening air a block away.
That scream started at the tip of Ailsa’s head and burrowed deep into her soul like an auger drilling through a long frozen lake. The moment was cold and black and nothing she’d ever experienced prepared her for it. The rest of the world stopped spinning, and over Ailsa’s own voice, she didn’t hear James vomiting on the front porch.
Famie sprinted toward the back fence, and as she passed the snow-disguised bird bath, her front foot slipped and she arched back hard, clearing a ribbon of green as she slid. In slow motion her foot left the ground and rose up in front of her until her body took on the shape of the horizon. Time stood still while Ruthie wondered if her mother might never come down. If she might keep rising into the white and never even glance back to wave goodbye. If she would disappear into wherever her husbands resided, and a Heavenly train might carry the three of them to the World’s Fair where they’d pay for the parachute ride and visit the Futurama Display and never consider Ruthie at all.
Or maybe it was the final accumulation of the years they’d spent together—him loving her and her constantly pushing him away. Either way, this time Michael didn’t resist her.
The sweet smell of warm hay rose up around them, and the rain pattered on the tin roof so ferociously, the thunder was barely audible when it cracked.
One of them was in love. And that night it was enough for both of them.
How do you feel about posting writing on blogs? Do you ever read other's writing? And, of course, did my blurbs grab you at all?