I Dream In Watercolors
and pastels.
I dream of white houses on black lakes underneath black skies illuminated by the biggest, roundest, white moon you've ever seen.
I swam in that lake, breathed water, cried black tears and became invisible.
But before I was invisible I was two. Two women separating and melding in a dance that no one could see. They turned their back, took a phone call, and I was left entranced, by my own image, in a white on white room turned gray by dim lights and shadow play.
I turned on the water but never took a bath.
I put a doll in the microwave and watched it melt while it began to cry, half baby, half doll, I don't know if I was trying to create or destroy.
All I know is this, my dreams are epochs, vibrant plays on your senses, and if they were to visit you, you would wake up breathless.
Last week I received my first rejection letter.
And it's good, very good. I sent my story to a pretty well known publication, I read their fiction and thought I could play with the big boys. I read their guidelines and felt that I was savvy.
They felt otherwise, and still, I'm okay with it.
I'm going to print that email out and tack it to my wall.
I'm going to look at it and one day say, Ha, because one day that story's going to be accepted... somewhere else.
They say every writer has to have a thick skin, a penchant for punishment. Well, if that's not me then I don't know what is.
So I applied to a writers conference.
I sent in a synopsis of my book. I included a writing sample.
And I got accepted.
Not only did I get accepted, but he sent back preliminary criticism. It was good. Very good. I need to have someone look at this book and rip it to shreds. I need someone who doesn't compliment me, or like me, or give a crap about me to turn around and say, "I love it. I like how x and y is formatted... but, Z could be better, and frankly, Y sucks ass."
I need someone to point me in the right direction, because, frankly, after this book is finished I will never have another original idea in my head at all. When I tilt my head sideways you will hear a tinkering of bells. Empty empty empty.
Unless I start finding authors, stealing their ideas, and then killing them. That would be sweet!
And FYI,
The dog has been named. Isatai. Comanche medicine chief with the famous last words of :
I'm calling him Izzy for short, in the hope that will give him a fighting chance against stupidity.
I dream of white houses on black lakes underneath black skies illuminated by the biggest, roundest, white moon you've ever seen.
I swam in that lake, breathed water, cried black tears and became invisible.
But before I was invisible I was two. Two women separating and melding in a dance that no one could see. They turned their back, took a phone call, and I was left entranced, by my own image, in a white on white room turned gray by dim lights and shadow play.
I turned on the water but never took a bath.
I put a doll in the microwave and watched it melt while it began to cry, half baby, half doll, I don't know if I was trying to create or destroy.
All I know is this, my dreams are epochs, vibrant plays on your senses, and if they were to visit you, you would wake up breathless.
Last week I received my first rejection letter.
And it's good, very good. I sent my story to a pretty well known publication, I read their fiction and thought I could play with the big boys. I read their guidelines and felt that I was savvy.
They felt otherwise, and still, I'm okay with it.
I'm going to print that email out and tack it to my wall.
I'm going to look at it and one day say, Ha, because one day that story's going to be accepted... somewhere else.
They say every writer has to have a thick skin, a penchant for punishment. Well, if that's not me then I don't know what is.
So I applied to a writers conference.
I sent in a synopsis of my book. I included a writing sample.
And I got accepted.
Not only did I get accepted, but he sent back preliminary criticism. It was good. Very good. I need to have someone look at this book and rip it to shreds. I need someone who doesn't compliment me, or like me, or give a crap about me to turn around and say, "I love it. I like how x and y is formatted... but, Z could be better, and frankly, Y sucks ass."
I need someone to point me in the right direction, because, frankly, after this book is finished I will never have another original idea in my head at all. When I tilt my head sideways you will hear a tinkering of bells. Empty empty empty.
Unless I start finding authors, stealing their ideas, and then killing them. That would be sweet!
And FYI,
The dog has been named. Isatai. Comanche medicine chief with the famous last words of :
The Great Spirit has at last taken pity on the People. He will make us strong in war and we shall drive the white men away. The buffalo shall come back everywhere, so that there shall be feasting and plenty in the lodges. The Great Spirit has taught me strong medicine which will turn away the white man's bullets.
I'm calling him Izzy for short, in the hope that will give him a fighting chance against stupidity.
