Interjection!

Today's post suffers from a distinct lack of inspiration. With NaNoWriMo coming up, I'm trying to organize my thoughts--which characters do I want to spend November obsessing about? Which projects can I finish before November?

Right now, I think NaNo will belong to Cupid. Cupid the maniacal, power-hungry, multi-chromatic winged bringing of insanity Spenser introduced me to in The Faerie Queene. Cupid who would like to rule Olympus, perhaps who has waited in the shadows until he's the only one left still be celebrated...every Valentine's Day getting a sugary jolt of power, like a crazy soda burst of energy.

Meanwhile, there are a few additional drafts that need work. A short story that needs expanding into a short YA novella--I had been struggling for a while to make Bastian Creek into a good magical realist setting and between the spiders, the Arcade, and the trees vying for control, I think it's finally there. Almost.

I had always wanted Bastian Creek to become the setting for several of my stories and yet I find that finishing this story to some extent drains some of the impetus away from it. I'm not sure how writers manage with serials.

Next week, Halloween posts!!

Deep & restful reading!

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(image courtesy of Magpie Tales)

I planned the shot like a billiard run
Where a flash of white finds each side.
We thought it just another angle.
Then the shards of myself were struck
By light itself, unfelt, into the silver.
In a small bathroom, I became shards
Sealing myself in without privacy
As we do now, in bathrooms or at table;
Lives bright as curated toy shelves.
I am easy to see, skim, select, apprehend,
Banked through random links to you.

Untitled

(Image courtesy Magpie Tales)


Wind comes like the heat, drawing the tide
Beating against her chest. Hollow land breathes,
Invisible air tangible as a touch on her neck.
She runs.

The spin beneath her feet drives her
Like the chaff of clouds racing above.
It tangles the winds; it jumbles thought.
It shoves.

Every sigh speeds its roll. Tumbling on
Until the drover and the driven, blind,
Run as if the rocky land chased them.
It does.

The wind speeds it behind her. Wire
Nets the empty land, catches her up
Like a dolphin in the sea that came
Before.

Run! Until it plucks the skin from your
Hands, the cotton from your back, the
Blood from beneath your flesh. And, then.
Then, run.