My newest story Princess is available now in The Big Book of Submission!

In the deep, dark, mysterious and terrible well of edits. Now with more adjectives!

I have a plan. Like a Cylon. I’m still not sure what the Cylon plan actually was, so I’m hoping mine is a bit more coherent.

The plan, thus far unrealized, is to do some editing on an old manuscript and some writing on a new one five days a week. Hour of this, hour of that. Seems doable. Further, the plan is to treat writing like a job. Somehow. In between the other job I have, and also raising kids and magically staying married. Yeah. It’s a good thing I don’t really care much about housework, and also that my awesome husband tends to pick up my slack.

World’s tiniest violin, I know. Good relationships, I will not take them for granted.

To that end I was mad tired and worn out today but I dragged myself to the coffee shop with a pair of headphones and the goal of digging into some edits on Waking Kiara. I’ve discovered that I both love and hate the manuscript, but the best news I got today was that I really hate the beginning, and really love the end. This I can handle. Reading the beginning is like tearing my own eyebrows out one hair at a time, but the end is fun, interesting, fast paced and honestly, I like reading it.

Cue my massive relief. I had been thinking I would have to scrap the whole thing and start over.

As is the wont of self-loving writers everywhere, I’m going to post a little quote from what I found in the well today. It made me snicker:

Combat boots crunching on the desert gravel, John coughed into his hanky* before walking away from the car.  The desert air dried his throat.  In Cairo, at least, there was the river cutting the city in half, with green growing things on the banks.  Soft sand dunes graced the boundaries of the city and echoed into the distance like the curves of a woman’s body.  The Sonoran desert, as far as he could tell, was entirely comprised of sharps–cactus, rocks, mountains.  Why anyone would live in this hell hole, he couldn’t imagine.

Tucson in August isn’t the nicest place. I might have been channeling that feeling when I wrote this passage. Now–back to the hole.

*oh yeah, he carries a hanky. THAT’S HOW HE ROLLS, YO.