Wolf in the Mall

I like to think I'm pretty brave. Needles don't bother me in the slightest. I have no qualms about wading into a dog fight and knocking a few heads together, or diving into a horse fight and diverting herbivorous rage (if you've never seen horses actually trying to tear each other's throats out, this one might not seem so bad) I don't have a problem with gaping wounds or dangling tissue. But put me in a room full of people I don't know and, well, it's like turning a wolf loose in a mall. I'll back into a corner where my flanks are protected and simply stare out at all the activity going on around me. If forced to leave my corner, I'll skitter across the floor dodging people like a mouse whose hiding spot has been discovered, or creep along the wall like a sniper changing positions. God forbid someone speaks to me (apparently my terror doesn't translate to my outward appearance) I stare for an inordinate amount of time before remembering how to form verbal responses and when I do manage to speak, I've forgotten what the person said to initiate contact in the first place and I'm forced to ask them to repeat themselves.

There's nothing wrong with being bad at talking to strangers, but you have to have a reasonable ability to converse with other people, escpecially when you're hoping to learn from them. All of this is coming around to the fact that I, a confirmed hermit have signed up to attend the Sirens conference being held in Vail CO in October of this year. I, who never went to a high school dance because I might actually have to talk to someone. But oh what an opportunity to learn! With guests of Honor like Kristin Cashore (personal hero since she's a debut author that I totally 'get') and Tamora Pierce, the conference which is in its inaugural year, promises to be full of information and people of all different backgrounds. All I have to do is manage to smile and respond. That shouldn't be too difficult. Hey, I'm sure that even wolves can learn to like the mall, or the food court anyhow. So until then, I'll be practicing my verbal skills and plotting how to avoid irking airport security.

And maybe I'll work on my computer prowess, since this is the second time I've written this blog because I didn't make my intentions to publish the first one clear and the computer ate it...

Writing is my Tree House

You know when you were a kid and you had 'that place' you went whenever you wanted and as long as you were there, nobody could get to you and nothing else mattered?  It might have been a tree house, or a big rock in the middle of the woods, or even just a fort made of bed sheets and and lawn chairs.  Writing is my tree house now.  It's my safe place, where no one else can go, no matter how they try.  That's what writing is to me, a land in and of itself.  Sometimes it's dangerous, sometimes frustrating and at other times it's a place where anything can happen.  

I have a friend who is always telling me that I love writing because it creates a chemical high, just as potent as taking a drug.  I HATE that he insists this is the true basis for why I'm so obsessed with writing.  And I flat don't agree with it.  I love tattoos as well, but not because I enjoy being poked thousands of times by seven needles at once.  The needles and pain are a part of tattooing, but they aren't why I love tattoos.  I love writing. Period.  I don't need a reason to love it, I don't have to justify the love of it, or try and dissect what causes me to love writing.  I just love it.   

If anyone happens to read this, let me know what writing is to you...

And Again....

So another round of query letters out, and another round of rejections back in. Now I'm getting a new round of query letters together. It rather feels like being on a merry-go-round in a windstorm, with every sailing piece of debris representing another rejection. But hey, I like the wind, and one day, when I'm staring at a hard copy of published work, my eyes will trail over the bookshelves to the massive framed collage of all those rejection letters, or so I keep telling myself. One of the bloggers I've been following (and you'll have to forgive the lack of a link here, I haven't gotten that under my belt yet) by the name of Cat Rambo, recently put up a post referring to the amount of persistence required by someone who wants to get published. In her post, she put a link to yet another blogger who'd posted about persistence. Both blogs are very good and did much to diminish my frustrations over the latest rejection letters.
I've submitted a short story to a local contest, and I'm working on more stories to submit either to contests, or magazines. My position in life is similar one of the astronauts in this quirky play we put on in highschool called "Kaliedoscope". During the play, the astronauts are thrown into space in different directions by an explosion, and though they know they aren't alone, none of them are ever able to find each other again. I'm not so hopeless as that, but for the time being, I'm simply floating through space in search of an asteroid called Agent. Persistence and tenacity are two traits I've never been short on, however, so until something changes, it's out with the queries, in with the rejections and begin the dance again. My collage is going to be magnificent. :)