Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Making changes... please pardon the rambling

Not sure if I am so in love with the layout of this blog anymore. I don't think it is all that easy on the eyes. Don't freak out of this space changes soon.

My father's next major surgery is tentatively set for tomorrow.

I was sad to see that Muse in Morristown had closed apparently some time ago. It was a nice place though I had not been by there in quite some time.

Heritage House is taking on a nice, easy to get into mass market feel... which is starting to irritate me. I am willing to bet good money I could post the first page or so of the manuscript on here and it would be more openly received compared with Riding Ten Thunders. Hey if it gets me published, what does it matter? Right?

Then why do I get so mad about it? Maybe my expectations have been too high for RTT.

You see while I enjoy that fantasy and science fiction genres, I loathe the overused tropes that plague many books. My favorite authors in this field are George R. R. Martin and Charles de Lint.

Martin allows his characters' petty desires take precedence over the ominous plot that typically weigh down fantasy books. And he makes the story of those petty desires far more interesting than finding magic swords or unicorns.

De Lint has a wonderful knack for making the ordinary seem extraordinary and vice versa. He works with subtle touches of language that don't ham fist a story into your face. No gimmicks. Sometimes his critics say he is a little lacking on substance.

I say De Lint's writing is like savoring a piece of fine chocolate. If you are in a rush to fill your belly, go ahead and eat a Snickers bar. But for those willing to pace themselves and absorb each hint of flavor, let that piece of Godiva chocolate melt slowly on your tongue.

I don't want my stories to be Snickers bars... I want the reader to indulge for a long while...

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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