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I've been busy with immigration lately (ie, trying not to tear my hair out with both fists while I listen to "hold" music on the phone), so I haven't had a chance to get much writing done on the serial blog novel I'd planned to put up earlier. Which means something terrible has happened.
After I go a while without looking at my work, it starts to look like a foreign beast to me. Something strange and to be distrusted. Two things can happen:
1) The passage of time has put a shiny platinum coating on it, and it looks perfect. I swell with self-importance. This is doubly dangerous because it both makes me look like a moron whose beret and art house sweater are on backorder, and because it makes me unable to recognise my own flaws.
2) The passage of time has left it creaking and rusty to my eyes. Flaws glare accusingly from every direction. Dialogue looks tedious and about as earnest as a high school play. Instead of an editor's pen, I wield a machete, lopping off great, glistening chunks of text that wobble pathetically at my feet.
Right now, I'm suffering from the latter.
So if I could get one or two people who were willing to read some "stuff" think weekend, and give me some honest feedback, it would really help me stop wanting to put a gun to this old horse's head. A lot of it may be just nerves, but I haven't done anything like this in a while, and I would like it not to suck. If you are interested, please drop me a line and I will get back to you with the first two chapters over the weekend for your perusal.
The story itself centers around Joanna Smithbeck, who returns home after eight years, to prepare her family home for sale, and winds up discovering the truth about her mother's death almost twenty years earlier, and the way it changes her perception of the people around her. It's a ghost story that might come a little heavy on the gore at times for some people (though I left the bucket of pig's blood alone for this one), but is ultimately about love, hate, forgiveness, and finding one's place in the world. If horror isn't your thing, you may want to give this one a miss.
Thenk yew.
After I go a while without looking at my work, it starts to look like a foreign beast to me. Something strange and to be distrusted. Two things can happen:
1) The passage of time has put a shiny platinum coating on it, and it looks perfect. I swell with self-importance. This is doubly dangerous because it both makes me look like a moron whose beret and art house sweater are on backorder, and because it makes me unable to recognise my own flaws.
2) The passage of time has left it creaking and rusty to my eyes. Flaws glare accusingly from every direction. Dialogue looks tedious and about as earnest as a high school play. Instead of an editor's pen, I wield a machete, lopping off great, glistening chunks of text that wobble pathetically at my feet.
Right now, I'm suffering from the latter.
So if I could get one or two people who were willing to read some "stuff" think weekend, and give me some honest feedback, it would really help me stop wanting to put a gun to this old horse's head. A lot of it may be just nerves, but I haven't done anything like this in a while, and I would like it not to suck. If you are interested, please drop me a line and I will get back to you with the first two chapters over the weekend for your perusal.
The story itself centers around Joanna Smithbeck, who returns home after eight years, to prepare her family home for sale, and winds up discovering the truth about her mother's death almost twenty years earlier, and the way it changes her perception of the people around her. It's a ghost story that might come a little heavy on the gore at times for some people (though I left the bucket of pig's blood alone for this one), but is ultimately about love, hate, forgiveness, and finding one's place in the world. If horror isn't your thing, you may want to give this one a miss.
Thenk yew.
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