Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Writers conference in March!

Going to register for the Liberty States Fiction Writers conference

http://www.libertystatesfictionwriters.com/lsf-writers-conference/

I will have Heritage Fields done and polished by then. First draft is drawing closer to completion with November as my deadline (REALLY). I'm writing short to make the story move. It's the best way to kill my bad habit of padding the page. So at most the first draft will be 80,000 words.

I write more dialogue these days with just a bit of tagging to keep the blocking straight. It's like writing a screenplay or rather thinking about one.

Anyway, finishing Heritage Fields in November will give me plenty of time to revise and rewrite, put together my pitch for the editors and agents at the conference.

With this one done, I may go back to start the rewrites of Riding Ten Thunders. I think I set that one aside long enough and can approach it with brand new eyes.

Having an objective, something definitive to work toward, keeps things going. And next week's trip to New Orleans should give me some new energy. Maybe I will catch a ghost on camera or record an EVP. I'm guessing there will plenty of vampires for me to trip over while in town.

It's been a long time since my first visit to New Orleans (only been once before) and that city has been through a lot since those days. I'll try to blog while I'm down there.

Maybe I shouldn't be a vampire this Halloween, I am sure it is overplayed down there. Maybe I could go as Baron Samedi... hmmm. Time to crack open my books on Vodou!

No comments:

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