Wednesday, December 10, 2008

I think I need a publicist

I've never been much of a self-promoter. It's just not one of my favorite things to do. But if I want my writing taken seriously I must do a better job of getting the attention of agents.

Maybe I should take a class in public relations... learn how to sell myself.

Anyway, the latest query went out today and I am outlining my next book.

Can't talk too much about the next book since it is very early on but I can say this much:

1. It is not a continuation of Riding Ten Thunders.

2. It takes place in a more contemporary setting.

3. There are supernatural elements to the story.

4. There will be no dreamy, Byronic vampire stud muffins. Seriously, how many stories about undead pretty boys does the world really need?

Okay, the game plan is to get the first draft done in the next six months. It's doable, believe me. And you have to get that first version of a story out of your system before you can fully examine the faults. Afterwards the surgery begins where chapters, plot lines and characters get extracted. I had to do cruel things to some of my favorite moments in Riding Ten Thunders. I suspect this project will be no less grueling.

If I work hard, I can be finished in time for my next birthday. Yes, that will be my goal. Complete the first draft of my latest book by my birthday.

I wonder what I will cook for dinner that night...

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Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away