In Shadows

I have been remiss in keeping up to date here. My main excuse is the switch to the Dvorak keyboard layout. I got out of the habit of messaging, emailing, and posting when I couldn’t freakin’ type!

Regardless of the slowness (which I have to admit is improving,) the Iditarod story is plodding along. I think I’m going to toss the outline out the window, however. Writing SF or mainstream or some other genre with an outline is well worth the minor level of constriction involved. But, writing lesbian romance is another matter entirely. I think I need to be open to a more organic approach, as I did in the beginning. A rough outline, yes, but not an extensively detailed one. I’ve realized the rough and tumble emotions are lacking when I follow an outline; not good for romance.

Which is not to say I’ll avoid an outline altogether. I simply won’t have every little step of the way planned ad nauseum.

I spent the day working on chapter five, and editing Tiopa Ki Lakota yet again. This was MY line by line edit, so I can safely consign the final proof to the publisher. I know, I know. I keep saying that this is the last round of edits, and another pops up. It’s all wishful thinking on my part. Sooner or later, I’ll receive my copies in the mail, and THEN I can breathe a sigh of relief that the project is complete. Why do I keep forgetting that?

And here’s a character sketch I found on one of those many days when I piddled about my documents file because typing was a horrid chore

He walks with the exaggerated swagger of a 1960’s street punk from Harlem, a sort of half limp, one shoulder dropped, one arm dragging slower than the other. The type of gait considered cool among African American men of my youth. He’s wiry, bone thin, and very pissed off. His mouth is in constant motion as he bitches at no one walking beside him, stopping occasionally to throw his hands down to his sides to stress his utter indignation. It’s odd how easy it is to watch him, yet discretely turn away as he turns in my direction. He’s across the street and I’m in a coffee shop. Even the distance of twenty-five feet isn’t safe enough from his madness. Will he vent his fury on whoever catches his eye, whoever sees him as a human being? Will he see me watching from my safe haven, and come over in his slouching Cool brand of walk to fill me in? I’d rather not risk it. My eyes drift down the street, as if I’m not seeing him at all. But you have to wonder . . . maybe if people truly saw him, he wouldn’t be venting his anger to an invisible companion.

Since finding the file, I’ve been meaning to add more. Just saw a man today that was interesting, as a matter of fact. Maybe I’ll type it up tomorrow.