Revising has brought about a few observations (as it always does) . . .

#1) Murdering your darlings.

               I once read that finishing a novel is like taking a child out into the yard and shooting it.  This is not far off.  Imagination can be a helluva thing, and this feels the same.  In revision the phrase given above stems from the feeling of sacrificing the story, its heart, soul, and all we wished to convey for structure.  Oh, how I can attest to that march of red...but, it has its purpose.

#2) Substance is nothing without setup.

              The greatest lyric line I have ever heard, comes from Miranda Lambert's Mama's Broken Heart.  "Word got around to the barflies and the Baptist"  In itself, it is quite eloquent, but, taking in the entire verse prior to it... POW!  It is perfection!!  Substance is, in deed, nothing without setup.  And it bears repetition.

#3) Writers are full of themselves.

              True.  And false.  How we want it, how the characters need it, and how the language requires it rarely ever align.  I'm vowing to keep the characters whole and their story true.  At the same time, skill of craft dictates I strive to improve my usage.  Over time, as always, there will be an evolution in the words I place on the page.  Ego, I hang outside for those no idea days, where I can dress it up as a scarecrow and name it Fred.

#4) There will be times in revision where you will regret (rue) the day you ever said, "I'll fix it later."

              Guess what.  It's later!  And the first rule of writing--just get it on the page--has come back to bite you in the arse.  Trust me, been there.  Am here.  Solution?  Fix it.  This is where you can stop the world and nit pick it into place and polish to your heart's content.  Just . . . stop while the shine is good.  Then give it a twenty-four hour rest before doing it again.

Some pages are all post-its...takes six to do it. One page has eight.  This is not where we writers waver and bend to breaking.  This is a writer's trial by fire and where we become tempered to get this right.

For a lot of years, I wrote under pseudonyms.  I never cared for people to know I did this--as a hobby and for print.  It was never an, oh, I do this, kind of thing.  People made such a big deal about it that I kept to my comfy little cubbyhole.  A hand-me-down desk in my apartment's back room.  That was where I lived, where I played, where I worked; where I wrote the most horrible slosh while waiting for that proverbial lightning strike.

That, my friend, is life.  Never was it glory.  And it's still not.  I do this now because it is still me.  The only change: I want to tread on my own name.  And, that, I do because I am who I am.  I never wish to be anyone else.  In Tarot, the Fool emerges for a journey, a great adventure of discovery.  At a certain point of that, he casts off trappings (picked up along the way) for his, once again true self.  My wheel came around.  Ha, ha.

I put this out because this is how this works.  This is also a pass/fail of self-publishing.  If I flop, don't take my advice.  If I make it, solely on my own, use the bits of this you need and blaze your own trail.  I will raise a beer for you either way.  A toast to Success is always a worthwhile drink (even if you missed for the moment, the next bit of effort may win the prize).  Never stop.  Never give up.  Never turn your back on yourself, but, mostly, your characters.  Ha, ha!  They never go away and know where you live.

--See you on the bookshelves!

Stirring from the underside . . .

It has been a long time since I last posted here.  Have moved two states since then, graduated from college, went back into the workforce for little more than a year, and am raising a wonderful son.  Have also left the workforce, trying to get back into it, and won first Nano!  That novel is next on the rehab (revision) list.  Hope to have that out in March sometime.  Title: Rebellion's Price.

As for now, 'Mitch' is finally finished (aim to revise sometime in Sep-Oct).  SNI: Torin (part one) is being finished for a postponed release in February.  Aimed to get it into print as well as e-book, but, will have to delay that option for now.  Still looking.

Cover art for Torin-P1 is done.

Sad news, The Forest Green has been dropped by Alfie Dog Limited.  Was not selling well, so was a mutual step down.  Wish them the best and was great fun being a part of them while it lasted.

So!  Onward and upward as the rubber band snaps.  On my FB: Fox R. R. Haddock, I've posted an excerpt of the coming Torin-P1.  Here it is (without the format issues! haha):

            Hair of murky brown pulled into a banded leather tie; eyes shining as if polished, Torin spied the building, seemingly lost in thought.  Sinclair knew better.  She was listening.  He, too, could hear the chants.  Outside the boundaries Torin had set as safety, men no one else could see eyed them from ghostly cowls.  They dotted the landscape about the castle.

           Sinclair kept kindness at his lips as Torin let out a breath, not unlike most she had ever taken.  She turned for her hand to shake his with a firm awareness.  Behind them, over the short cut grasses and under slumbering skies, gathered their oak brethren.

            “Stay clear,” Torin prayed for her clansmen's safety, “and await their signal.”

            “Will do,” Sinclair agreed, not looking forward to seeing his distant kin going into the property which had once been a place of her demise.  Blood made no-never-mind to him.  Torin was a sister.  They had simply met too late to have enjoyed it.  “Be safe,” Sinclair hushed as Dion sauntered over, reflective stripe of the medium’s black jumpsuit dull in comparison with their ice-white hair.

            “Ready?” David asked.  Torin gave a short, dutiful nod as she let go of her Scottish brother.  How much, David did not fully know—yet.  “Alright,” David looked scantly between the two of them.  Behind Sinclair stood gathered a number of man in green robes and gold belts of braided cord.  Their purpose, David did not agree with.  SNI had their own source of protection and could withstand the efforts of any entity.  The team had—many times—in the twelve years David had overseen them.

            “Why don’t you stay out here,” David pointed verbally, “unless we call you?”

            “Sure thing, Boss,” a hooded man from the back spoke for the group.  Sinclair smiled despite his own masterful demeanor.  Torin, David had to look twice, was biting back a snicker; her face turned away to hide the strangle of such a smile it may have matched Sinclair’s—had it lived.

            “We’ll be here,” Sinclair affirmed, joyfulness no longer seen.  The man’s eyes, David acknowledged, were on the team’s newest, and apparently least known, addition.  “SNI will have no interference from us, Mr. Dion,” Sinclair finalized, eyes finding the man which he addressed.  “You have my word.”

            “Thank you,” David turned to lead Torin away.  Sinclair’s jaw puffed at the sides from the distance inserted from where she had just stood.

            “Torin,” Sinclair halted her steps.  Torin walked back to where she had been.  Sinclair stepped closer for one final hug—prayed it wasn’t.  “You are loved, Child.”

            Torin returned his embrace with a grip that carried more sentiment than she could justly convey.  “By my word, Brother,” she said into the fold of Sinclair’s downed hood.  “We’ll raise a pint at the end.”

            Torin let go, taking her place among the American team.

            ‘Scotia, Cerridwen, I charge you both with her care,’ Sinclair sighed.  With every step Torin took closer to the tower, he felt a strumming, stirring of what was always awake.  And waiting.

Thank you for reading.
More news to come.