Wednesday, July 14, 2010


A few days ago I was chatting with someone who said they were seriously interested in writing, but they "only write on the weekends" when in the mood because they "don't want to waste their time".

Yeah . . . good luck with that.

Here's the truth: You have to write and rewrite constantly. The story, book, screenplay is not finished until it has been released to the public. THEN you are finished unless you release some sort of special edition later but you get my point.

I know what happens if you write when you feel like it. You never get anywhere. The story that led to Riding Ten Thunders brewed in my brains for more years than I want to confess to before I finally got to work.

But when I really got down to business with Heritage Fields, I was done within one year. When you hear about my updates and rewrites, that is me "tuning up" the content. And I didn't get to this point by writing when I felt like it. No one who ever succeeded did so by working only when the mood struck.

Any way, I sent out another pitch last Friday which was pretty wrong-headed on my part. Monday morning is the time to strike! Got to catch them when they are fresh in the office.

Also, there is another pitch & shop event in September. Didn't try to go last time, but I will see if this one fits my schedule. A lot can happen between now and then. The important thing is to focus!!!!!

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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