October 7th, 2007

literature charlotte some spider

somebody always gets it on the night patrol.

I'm home from Viable Paradise, and the last eight days of my life are a blur. I met or remet twenty-eight excellent students, four amazing staffers, one excellent not-staffer, and seven really incredibly smart writers and editors. I think I may have learned more about writing from the students than they could possibly have learned from me.

High points, in passing: Cory infecting me with the phrase "x brings the awesome" (Mr. Doctorow is a wonderful room-mate, by the way.); morning yoga the four days I managed to do it, jellyfish, many beachwalks, omg way too much fried shellfish (I think I'll wait a while to get my mercury levels checked. Or my cholesterol done.), Richard III with added buggery ("Ow!"), buggery of giant sea insect sort, and, you know, Indian Summer on Martha's Vineyard, what we got to see of it between crit sessions.

Me fall over now.

As soon as I put these road flares Jim gave me as we were leaving in the trunk of my car. (Jim: "Nobody dies, okay?" Jim is good people.)

Actually, I can't fall over, because I have two revisions due on November 1, and I really need to get them finished by Oct 30, since there is a convention and all.


I will probably be blogging but not reading? Because you know. With the deadline and all, and some real life commitments.

Also, new column up on Storytellers Unplugged.

So. Tired.

Oh, and this is all coffeeem's fault, but I am suddenly possessed of the desire to find and join a climbing gym.
rengeek will and tilda

undimmed by human tears

More on the fine art of revising and editing, and sentence-level control of one's rhetoric and prose.


Every word like a blow, and yet he saw the logic of it. Logic that galled like a spur struck against his skin.


Every word a blow, and yet the logic galled like a spur against his skin.

It's like bonsai.

You have to get rid of anything that might blur the line.