Friday, April 2, 2010

Rewrites, nephews and a tangled subconscious

One of the most important parts of writing is rewriting. You don't know what you've got till you get to the end, take a step back and ponder, ponder, ponder.

I have a couple of plot shifts to make on Heritage Fields. Then I need to tighten the whole thing up, some scenes just ramble.

Other than that, the book is done. Time will tell if it was worth the effort.

This weekend I'll see all my nephews. Must clean apartment, childproof the furniture and shelves. Will take lots of photos, kids tend to get big real fast when you don't see them too often.

Had a lucid dream a couple of weeks ago. It was... off-putting. I was aware it was a dream yet had little control of the circumstances. I've seen a lot more technical flaws in my writing of late which is troublesome. My penchant for skipping words as I write has gotten worse. Writing fast is one thing, but it's affecting the day-job too.

Maybe I've got some subconscious distractions at play, but there is no time for that. The time is now and I have to get things squared away and pitch my work.

With Heritage Fields going in the finished bin, I can take Riding Ten Thunders out and give it the attention it needs for a revival.

Or I might get cracking on a new writing project, a new idea I've had kicking around the past few months. It's more action-demon smashing oriented. We shall see...


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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