This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs:
So at Miriam’s behest, I’ve embarked on a rewrite journey. A few editors pinged her and said flat-out that they’d like to see an edited version of one of my books. I’m mid-revision now and lemme tell ya, it’s a doozy! See, I kept five chapters of the book as is. Virtually no changes save for a handful of sentences that will help me with the new and improved draft. That’s ten thousand words that made the cut. A typical YA book, around 60 – 80 thousand words. So for new material, I have to do . . .
Yeah. You do the math. Best part? I’ve committed to finishing it by the end of July so we get it back to the people who want to see it. S’alotta book, mis amigos.
To say that life is WEIRD AND STRAINED right now is a bit of an understatement. I’m working the day job, hacking at words on my lunch break, and then coming home and assaulting more words. I’m completely neurotic about the words that I’m making, because what if I have these editors interested, and OH SHIT I BLEW IT. That’s a terrifying thought. Generally speaking, editors just flat out pass, don’t say anything, or (if you’re very fortunate) say I LOVE IT AND WANT IT FOREVER. The interesting thing is the editor that first approached Miriam took this book up the chain and came back with the rewrite request. So.
No guarantees, of course, but I’m hopeful. Fingers crossed, glass is half-full, Please Sky Poobah, don’t let me fuck this to a fare-thee-well.
Anywho, if the blog is quiet, that’s why, and I am very, very sorry for it. To keep you sated in the meanwhile, here’s a li’l sample (first draft so it might get better-er) of the new content:
I heard the rat-a-tat laughter echoing from the windows across the hall – shiver inducing hiss-chuckles, like sandpaper pieces rubbing together. There weren’t enough people around to act as a buffer, and so she’d found me. I refused to look at her, not wanting to see her watching me from the glass. Instead, I forced my sore, battered body into a full run toward the cafeteria. I didn’t care if I had to tear open forty thousand single-serving packets of salt, I’d find a way to send her back. She wouldn’t get me.
So stupid. So stupid not to bring a shaker from home. But I was so tired this morning . . .
From the corner of my eye, I could see the dark shadow careening through the parallel windows to keep pace with me. She followed me from pane to pane, never losing ground no matter how hard I pumped my legs. The cafeteria was near, but three walls had floor-to-ceiling windows. The condiments station was at the back, near the kitchen and lunch line. That should have been a relief, but all the counters, lights, and appliances were glossy, stainless steel. I couldn’t escape her no matter where I went.
I sailed around a corner, my breath coming in short pants from my sprint. I found myself in one of the windowless, locker-clad hallways again, and I stopped my dash, my feet planted on the black and white checkered tiles. I was ready to run again if I had to, but maybe I was safe here. Maybe I didn’t have to go to the cafeteria. The shine was limited – even the paint on the walls was a drab, industrial green – so there shouldn’t have been any way for her to find me.
BANG! BANG! BANG BANG bangbangbangbangbang!
It sounded like a gun rapid-firing, like someone had fired an Uzi in the middle of the hall. I crouched low to the ground out of instinct, my hands going over my ears as that loud, angry clanging exploded from every direction. I didn’t understand what was happening at first, but then I noticed the shiny metal locks on the lockers. The padlocks were lifting and slamming against the lockers, up and down over and over as if invisible hands where smashing them. There had to be dozens of them, and yet somehow, over the clamor of the echoing thuds, I heard her voice – as gravely and dry as any of her laughter.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.