Yesterday morning I finally sent off Draft 1.5 of Not Flesh Nor Feathers to Liz. I had to. I couldn’t look at it any longer. I’ve been eyeballs-deep in the thing for the last two months – I was entirely too close to it to improve it. Time to get some distance and let someone else take a crack at it. Criminey, I hope she doesn’t hate it.
This means, of course, that my major spring deadline has been met – and met a couple of days early. Due on July 1 (by sheer coincidence) were both Not Flesh Nor Feathers and The Wreck of the Mary Byrd. Mary Byrd went home to Subterranean a few weeks ago, and now the other is (at least temporarily) squared away as well. Truly, this is cause for celebration – but it does not mean that now I get to sit around resting my little laurels.
Next up – and I put this here for personal reference as much as anything – I need to start work on the following:
- One science fiction proposal – based loosely upon my mother’s conspiracy theory (this one’s been rattling around in my head for awhile now)
- One YA proposal (which has also been rattling around in my head) – A hurricane directly hits Tampa for the first time in a hundred years, stranding 6 kids in an adolescent psych ward without power or access to evacuation … and the new night-shift counselor isn’t quite what he seems. This one will probably work out to be my first dabbling in fey fiction.*
- A nun-with-gun short story for Bill at Subterranean. Promised a few weeks ago.
- Requested touch-up on my WWII-era dragon story for Mythic Delirium, due before long.
- Short story for the Apex Digest collection – my Japanese bone-monster at the pizza joint tale
- At least one more short for one more anthology invite. Probably more like two.
- Brace self for response from Liz vis-a-vis the 2 proposed projects on her desk at the moment
- Compose about half a dozen book reviews
Right. Well. That’s all I can think of for now. I’ll revise or update the list as projects appear (or are remembered).
* When I was fifteen, I spent a several weeks in a adolescent ward at a private hospital in Orlando. I got caught shoplifting some make-up and candy from a drug store, and my mother signed me up for the Adventist equivalent of Juvey. When they found out we had good Adventist health insurance, the doctors gave my parents a bunch of runaround about getting me out of there – and what began as something mildly entertaining turned into something frankly frightening. The head doctor (A guy whose name was “Jacobson,” I believe, but it’s been a long time and now I don’t really recall) told me he was going to have me transferred to a halfway house in the middle of the night and that my parents wouldn’t be able to do anything about it – because he was the doctor, and he could order it if he wanted to. He told me point blank that he could keep me locked up in the system until I turned eighteen, or until my mother’s insurance ran out – whichever happened first. In the end, my dad’s lawyer proved more wily than the doctor’s orders, and they let me go — but ah, Christian mental health therapy.
At any rate, wouldn’t it be cool if Jacobson (or whoever he was) been an evil fey lord or something? Hell, he might’ve been, for all I know. And what if there was a really bad storm, and no power, and he was looking for something there in the old 50s-era hospital, and he didn’t care who he had to kill or use to find it … MWOO HA HA HA HA …