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

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 Soul and The Spine

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low, eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...

A Single (Terrible) Poem

I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies. This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem? -- Chrissa

A Weed on The Curb

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