Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul

After a few years, I'm back in the southwest today. Incessant sun and cracking skin. Pale winter limbs that will never take on the smooth brown of Italian ancestors. So be it. Few trees, no grass. Nothing to bind me to the ground.

equinox

"That woman has brought me to dark places," she said.

Fire is catching

As Flo would say, it’s like Christmas, my birthday, and Lord of the Rings all at once.

(Yay for being at least ten years out of the target audience! Hey, haters gonna hate and all of that.)

That’s why they call it the blues

Last night, I came home from work a little cranky. In the mood to hide out. You know those nights. The query and writing blues kicked in, which of course led to, “And what am I doing with my life?”

Thanks to the power of social media, I learned that my favorite collegiate gymnastics team was streaming its competition online.

As I watched, continuing to feel glum, a girl from the opposing team fell off of beam. She was clearly rattled and climbed back up, only to straddle the beam on her next skill.

Suddenly, my night didn’t seem so bad.

the bailout

This is what we call a life post:

I know how to flip out of the boat. No, no, thanks. Sudden change of plans. Different order of operations than anticipated. So sorry. I roll into the water and swim for the shore.

I can tell when others will do it. I hear the splash before they've made a move for the side. I imagine the hasty excuses.

But lately I want to take that waterlogged vessel out farther. Sit with bare feet as water rises over my ankles, over the bench. Take my chances. 

It was a tricky day to wear a dress.

February ended up dedicated to the querying/synposing/revising/sending/crossing fingers for the YA nov. Truth be told, it was a fun ride. And there's more to be done.

In terms of new material, though, I'm stepping back to the screenplay. That old chestnut. We've made it to Act III and now the two men are in the same room, and one has murder on his mind.

I write it one line at a time, very carefully.

I know that I can go back and take out all of the stupid stuff, revise the heck out of it, make it shine. I don't have to get it right on the first try. But I want to. As close as I can. The words might change, but I want the tone and the tension to be just right.

...

Read: Kayak Morning, Roger Rosenblatt

The Crossing

When those eyes and the nation to which they stood witness were gone at last with their dignity back into their origins there would perhaps be other fires and other witnesses and other worlds otherwise beheld. But they would not be this one.

One thing I admire about Cormac McCarthy: he writes on his own terms. Punctuation, dialogue tags, sudden large words--they're all used at his discretion. It doesn't matter what everyone else is writing. It doesn't matter what's trendy. He writes the way he chooses to.