Will Geary


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Will Geary

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My Progress

Well, looks like we’re near the end of the write-a-thon! I haven’t been able to update on here much at all, but I’ve knocked out two scenes of my short story and 4000 words of writing despite my computer being broken the whole time and getting a new full-time job, and that’s not bad.

But since we’re at the end of the fundraiser, let’s do something special. For every $1 you donate, I will write 100 words for you of any fiction you want. Any premise, any characters, be as specific as you like. No NSFW; that’s basically the only limit.

This offer scales, too; if you donate $10, I’ll write 1,000 words.

And to sweeten the deal, I’ll guarantee that I’m going to write up to 4,000 words of these donation stories this week.

So, get on this while the fundraiser’s still going! It ends today!

About Me

Writing Sample

The jungles of Aoloma were often described by visitors as green and luscious; however, the ocean was also often described as blue and wet, which is technically accurate but fails to account for a great deal of information.
Broad round leaves drooping down from the trees; long flat leaves arcing up from the earth until gravity pulled them back down; heart-shaped leaves tangling with the long vines they stemmed from as they ran across the earth: the jungle had all of these, and countless more. These leaves were the walls, the floor and the roof, forming a canopy above and forcing the sunlight to shoot through in narrow shafts, bright patches interrupting green shade.
Their structures were built on a scaffolding of bending trunks and twisted roots, running over under and into each other as if all the trees were all frozen still while grappling for the nutrient-rich soil. Most had mottled grey-brown bark under the moss and lichen, but it was only intermittently visible, often hidden by fallen leaves and dirt. This was all furnished by bright torch-like flowers, orange and blue blossoms reaching skyward and swaying with the slight breeze. The soft rustle of wind through leaves and the distant noises of birds completed the scene -— that is, if you tuned out the stomping sounds of twelve sweaty tourists on an uphill hike.
The crunch of bramble and foliage underfoot was irregular, but had a certain rhythm to it. Though the tour party stumbled up the slope in uneven clusters of people, a close listener could liken each step to a drumbeat in a very poorly composed song. No real logic or harmony to it, but there was still a definite difference between playing the music and falling off the stage.
A footstep fell lighter than it should have, paired with a sharp breath —- a twisted ankle, perhaps -— and Liza was already in motion, keen eyes following her ears to the source.
There was another man here.

What I Write

I aim to write speculative fiction with a sense of fun, without sacrificing emotional grounding. And sometimes it works!

Write-a-thon Goals

Writing Goals

Keep progressing on my current short story, a buddy-cop story about town guards.

Fundraising Goals

For every $1 donated, I will write you 100 words about anything you choose! Go nuts!