Thursday, January 8, 2009

2009 so far

Dad's in the hospital, Mom's kind of shook's complicated.

The new pages are growing for the new book (for now let's just call it Heritage House). 500 words per night.
Revisions and submissions continue on Riding Ten Thunders.

Going to a "meet & greet" with the Liberty States Fiction Writers on Saturday.

Someone asked me recently why I rarely take vacation time. The short answer is I was "on vacation" for too much of my life. There is naught but worh ahead for me. My need to be published is paramount. There is no other option but to succeed and I frigging hate being second rate... or at least being perceived as such.

Others have asked: Why not self-publish?" To me, that is not the same as having your work embraced by the industry. That is not the proof of my ability I want.

Late last year I took a test to join MENSA. Based on my SAT scores alone, I could be accepted into the organization. But that wasn't enough for me. I wanted to prove my quality through their own test. I did not succeed in my effort and that's fine. On that day I didn't measure up and you can't take the test again. I could still submit the SAT scores to ask to join the group, but that's not the same for me.

I need to prove my skills on the field where they can be examined and judged.

At various times, I have destroyed my personal integrity, allowed my determination to crumble and let my commitment evaporate.

And I have permitted naysayers to question the worthiness of my name.

Such arguments are grounded in validity. I know where I've been. But I cannot allow that to eclipse my efforts. My family has been through enough squalor and it is about time there was something great for folks to admire us for.

So 2009, I predict, will be the year I prove the naysayers wrong and wave my flag high.

1 comment:

Cindy said...

Sorry, to see that your father is in the hospital.

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