What it is is seven lines from the seventh page of your current work in progress, then you tag seven other authors. (Um, Slash & Burn authors, consider yourself tagged!)
So here's my seven lines from the seventh page of a historical that has seized my brain and won't let me work on what I'd been planning. I'm calling it Dead to Me right now.
It takes place in 1896 in Cornwall.
I disembarked at the Looe station in the early evening. The air was warm, scented with thick growth and cleansed by the sea. My blackened London lungs immediately rebelled in a violent cough, the hacking echoing through my rattled and aching bones.
The last stretch of track had been laid without regard for safety or comfort, either clinging to cliff face on a steep incline or traversing a spit of land in salty marsh. I’d done far too much clinging to the hard wooden seat back in my third class carriage, damn Fred to the ninth circle of hell with the other traitors. It had been far too easy to become accustomed to a life of finer things and small luxuries such as clean linen and soft seating.
Informercial voice: But wait, there's more.
Here's what I thought I'd be working on. Feel free to chime in with opinions and make my manuscript ADD settle. This is seven from page seven of the next Baltimore book, Bad Habit.
Silver looked back at Marco, who, yeah, Silver had dragged up to Mount Washington. What a fucking time for Silver’s conscience to come back from the dead. He ran down the driveway.
It was easy enough to find the tools in the freakishly neat garage. Remembering how his father had never been happy when he sent Silver for tools, he came back with the wrench and three different-sized screwdrivers which he shoved into the arrogant asshole's hands before backing away.
Though Silver was fuck-all certain the only time Gavin looked under a car’s hood was in a gleaming showroom, the two older guys got cozy and flirty over the engine. It was all Silver could do to not roll his eyes.