Update on "Do I Want to Read Fantasy"

Yes. The short answer is yes. Blog over.

And...more frequently...no. I'm a squeamish reader (I just started Cherie Priest's The Toll and you can pretty much tell from my face that I'm waiting for the jump scare. Maybe there won't be any. But I am pretty sure there will be and Arthur, who is being held tightly on one side, is probably hoping for none.) and I don't really care for multiple POVs because I will choose a favorite and snark my way through the others.

This is probably a childish way to look at it, but I'm pretty sure I want the story to take my hand and drag me off to the next really cool thing I need to see and eventually, after a fun afternoon of adventuring, let me go, relatively safe and unharmed, at home. I don't want a bunch of hyper, left-over emotions that explode out at weird times because it takes me a loooooong time to digest the horror that I consumed in the name of "fun." Which isn't to say that I don't want my tastes to expand or change or that the story can't (or shouldn't) shake the dust and bats out of my expectations, experiences, or opinions...just that I need smaller doses of the hyper and the horror.

From the list from the previous entry, I've picked out about three books to download and read (at least for now) and this weekend I'm hoping to make to a local author festival and so it would be good to have these books read before I potentially add new self-pubbed ones to the list.

AND...(love those ellipses!) because I started this in small part to inspire me to stop letting my own projects ferment without action, I'll say that spending time trying to find out where my taste is right now seems to be helping me come up with a direction for this story, so here's the goal for that: twin drafts by end of September.

It looks like it's about to start raining again, so I guess it's time to find a cozy place to read and get back to the self-pubbed wonderland.

-- Chrissa

Comments

Treacle Season

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 , hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge dreaming an angel who became a superhero. She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall. The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s) I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city... Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion: there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it. -- Chrissa

Turn Away

Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm. Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story. Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of

Out of the Den

For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why. -- Chrissa

A Weed on The Curb

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