This past weekend, I went to my chapter's writing retreat. We visited a new location (Stanford Sierra Conference Center) which was gorgeous if a little chilly. The food was excellent, the staff were very friendly and helpful and the scenery was stunning. Even the thunderstorm that rolled through was impressive. Coming from an admitted thunder-chicken, that's saying something.
It was my second workshop with Margie Lawson. The first time around, I'm not sure I was quite ready to take in everything that she has to teach. This time, I got it. I really and truly got it. I had some brain-jolting epiphanies, rewrote a couple of passages on the Songmaker book (which I have not talked about much here, but think immortal Irish bards pretending to be a rock band while they save the world) and realized that, you guessed it, I still have some work to do on Tybalt's book.
And I thought I was done with him. I want to put an amazing book out there, though, guys, especially since I'm going the indie route with him, so if he takes me a little longer than I promised, I apologize. You want to read that story when it's the best it can be, not when there are still rough edges to be sanded off. Right? Right.
So I've been Margie-izing the heck out of the book and boggling at my missed opportunities and generally, being in pretty good headspace. All good things!
In health news, still dealing with the infection in my shoulder. Still not painful, still healing, slowly but surely. As I told a friend, it's going to leave a gnarly scar. Then again, cat scratches leave scars on me for years, so, something this major? Yeah, it's going to leave a mark. But it's healing. I'm quite tired of creams and antibiotics and sterile gauze pads, but it's healing.
But the writing! Did I mention how cool the workshop was? Want to see?
Here's the old opening of Immortal Lies:
Hunting Night.
It's one of those things everyone recognizes and most people
can't name. Ordinary folk step outside after sundown and the hairs on their
arms stand on end. They check over their shoulders like a nervous tic and shy
away from dark doorways on deserted streets. Little things -- everything --
makes them jump. Smart people listen to that tinny inner voice, stay inside and
lock their doors.
There are a lot of not-smart people in the world ignoring their
lizard brains.
----
Here's the new one:
If you know anything about vampires--or
think you do, at least--you've probably got a plan for what to do when you meet
one.
That is, of course, if you believe.
That is, of course, if you believe.
Here's the thing about believing: it's not a two-way street.
They don't need your buy-in to smell supper beneath your skin. Deny all you
want. Ignore the itch of warching at the back of your brain.
Just don't get caught alone on Hunting Night.
Hunting Night is one of those things most people know by
instinct and most don't give a name. Step outside after sundown and the hair on
your arms stands on end. You check over your shoulder like a nervous tic and
shy away from doorways on deserted streets. Little things--everything--makes
you jump. Smart people listen to that tinny inner voice.
There are a lot of not-smart people in the world ignoring their
lizard brains.
----
:)
