Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Keeping the drive alive

This is one of the more challenging final laps I've had to push through.

Times like this you need reminders of why you are doing this mess. Riding Ten Thunders also made me kinda nuts towards the end.

I don't care what others tell you, finishing is not it's own reward! It's a major step forward but there are times you need a juicy carrot dangled in front of you to keep yourself forging ahead.

Writing is a marathon, not a sprinting race. And MAN can it wear on your resolve. But it's time to finish harvesting the crop on Heritage Fields.

Pesky characters want to spiral the story off into the ether and I can't let that happen. Now is the time to fill in the gaps, not to create more plot holes... unless you want the novel to read like the script to a Michael Bay movie.

The first draft is never perfect but I find myself asking "Is this smart enough? Is the plot wicked sharp?" I don't want the reader to look behind the curtain and say "That's IT?!"

I much rather have you say, "Whoa... that was kind of messed up, JP. But I see what you're getting at."

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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