change is good…

Yesterday, I decided I would change the look of my writing blog, so short of doing any kind of coding, I chose a new format. I’ve been busy setting new goals for the school year, yes because the children are headed back and my youngest will be out of the house for most of the day, so instead of moving the furniture I opted for a great big pen at the top of my page.

I have a number of novels in the works and I’d like to get two done before the end of the year. Queries and submission lists included. It’s a task, but I have the time. I have between 9:00 and 2:00 to write and I have promised myself I will. And I’ve also decided to resume reading regularly.

Oh and for those who’ve been reading Back into the Sand for me, the page is still there, but the link to it is over on the right in the side bar. Thanks.

BitS new wordcount…

Back into the Sand has more words this night.

From 5347 to 6385.

10k before the end of the month for sure.

Back into the Sand word count…

The outline is complete, several have even read it. I met my goal of having it done by the end of August for the most part though I did have a major idea this past week and decided to weave it in there. Goals are great, but they have to be flexible.

Finally, I am writing, from beginning to end (before I was just writing scenes so I wouldn’t lose them) Sergeant Christopher Scott DeHaven’s journey. So, not counting the other ten pages I wrote along with the scene where he sits with the Devil and has a smoke, I’ve got 290 words with the plot completely worked out.

Here’s a new excerpt…

An explosion, audible only to a small group of boys, rocked Martin Street. Three of them were hit with invisible shrapnel as the rest fought to keep the ground they had gained over the past hour.

Medic!

The small kid who wore the weird glasses ran to Frankie to give aid, but he was too late. Frankie was gone. Dead.

Christopher motioned to his front line to move in and take the left side of the barren lot. He should have taken a moment to mourn his best friend’s passing but war is hell and his country was counting on him. His losses were negligible, though Mrs. Allen would probably be devastated by the loss of her son. Mothers always are. But real soldiers understood that winning the battle was the only way to honor those who’d fallen in it.

“Christopher, come home for dinner!” His grandfather’s voice echoed through their ears like gunshots.

Kevin glanced over at him, his fancy plastic and metal gun gripped tight in his white knuckled hands. “You better go.”

Christopher shook his head and motioned again. He directed what was left of his rag-tag platoon to move along the blind side of the enemy and attack from a direction they did not expect.

“How long do I have to lay here?” Frankie was up on his elbows.

“You’re dead, stupid, it’s a forever thing or hasn’t church taught you anything?” Chris laughed and turned to meet the barrel of a gun pointed at his chest. Ronnie Wilson. Son of a bitch.

“Bam! You’re dead!”

I’ll edit in a new word count if I continue to write tonight… which is almost a given.

rejection at its worst…

To be rejected by a publisher or agent is difficult, but the rejection writers cause themselves is worse. The pre-rejection stage where we refuse to send things out because they need to be polished a little more. For crying out loud girl, you’re rubbing the paint off it.

I’m not done polishing, but it’s time to man up and submit. Hell, I got published late last year in Black Ink Horror. Why not get published again… and again. Time to dust off my submission armor and send out some stories.

I promise one submission a week and you can call me on it if I don’t. This week I will find a place to submit Forbidden Place, do a last polish, and submit by Friday.

Here is a excerpt…

The junkyard stood tucked away at the end of a road the group of old friends had not ventured down in years. Crows moved in circling black waves over the trash strewn yard, each one like a puncture in the grim sky. They settled in barren trees and on discarded objects before a sudden flap of wings or errant cry sent the entire lot of them skittering back into the air in a mad rush where they would start the process again. Levi regarded them as an omen. They should not be there, the three of them, but this was the only way.

Skeletal silhouettes of things long rendered useless by time filled the bleak stone landscape. A fence, the once locked chain broken but still woven through the gate, marked the end of where they were permitted to wander.

“Think it’s still in there?” Lilly’s voice trembled as she touched the fence with slender white fingers. Her face pinched as if in physical pain.

It was there. Each one of them could feel it. It’s presence hung in the air like smoke, choking them. Lilly seemed to feel it the most, her delicate spirit almost destroyed over the years listening to its whispers.