Sunday, October 3, 2010

Let the cutting begin

So I am in a tussle with the narrative for Black Saturday (nee Heritage Fields nee Heritage House). My way of telling the story is very confusing for others. There are a lot of POV characters and I am trying to narrow it down without losing the scope of who they are in the context of the story.

I want to give the book the feel of a town and not just one guy you have to watch clip his toenails and floss his teeth. However, Randall does need to play a more cohesive role.

I was afraid to centralize the novel too much on him because I want to introduce real threats to his existence and that means the narrative would have to shift to another perspective.

I am not a fan of books that include both a third-person narrative for subordinate characters and first-person for the protagonist. That's just too jarring for me. Which is why I am sticking with third-person throughout.

But, there must be some cutting. The draft needs streamlining. I just need to remind myself that multiple editors in Manhattan WANT to see this novel. :-)

They asked for it and, by golly, I'm gonna give it to 'em!

1 comment:

Kraxpelax said...

The Moon
on a cat


As a native Swede, I am particularly proud of my love poetry suite Sonnets for Katie.

My Poems

My wallpaper art Babes!

Sexuality introduces Death to Being; and indeed Life simultaneously. This is the profound Myth of the Eden. The work of the Serpent. Bringing us out of "blessed" Standstill. So, in contrast to the mindless pietism of vulgar Christianity, my personal "Christo-Satanism" should be given serious thought by the Enlightened Few, the Pneumatics, the 1% Outlaws. The Light Bringer must be rehabilitated, beacause if not, the All of it simply doesn't make sense: true Catholicism is necessarily Meta Catholicism.

My philosophy


Fremde Gedichte

And: reciprocity: for mutual benefit, you will do me a favor promoting your own blog on mine!


- Peter Ingestad, Sweden

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