Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Into the fourth revision I go. The novel flows more smoothly and the story so far feels complete and true. That’s a big reach when only fifteen percent has been done in this round but I hold onto any sign of progress and completion that’s found.
Meanwhile, I’ve started writing another novel, of course, because stories stir restlessly in the mind’s wings, eager to for their moment to be explored and told.
Flooftalk (floofinition) – 1. Speaking done by animals.
In use: “The dog, cat, and birds engaged in flooftalk — the fish may have been saying something, too, for they were avidly eyeing the scene from inside their aquarium — but Brenda had no idea of the topic, looking for intruders and seeing nothing, even as she asked the animals, “What is it? What are you guys talking about?” Like most flooftalk which she overheard, she never learned what was being discussed.”
2. Imperfect or altered manner of speech people use in addressing animals.
In use: ‘Her dog greeted her with a polite bark and heavy tail wagging. “Did you miss me, boy?” Jill replied in flooftalk, bending to pet the pug. “Who’s a good dog? Who’s a pretty dog?”‘
3. Conversations about animal health and behavior, or about observations regarding animals.
In use: “A flooftalk broke out every evening as Mitchell shared with Kevin the latest humorist episode of their foster cats.”
I finished the third round of revision and editing for The Light of Memories. Don’t think the title is ever mentioned in the book BTW. When I read the last chapter, a short but sturdy creature, I cried. Not sure if the crying was for the character, ending, or being done with the process again. There I was at the coffee shop, a few years short of seventy, looking at my laptop and struggling against tears. Fortunately, I don’t think anyone noticed because I’m a man a few years short of seventy at a coffee shop.
I saved the doc and closed it, and then resumed writing another novel. I don’t know if time waits for anyone but I do know that when the muses say jump, I jump and then ask, “How high?”
The final hundred pages were attacked. He brooded. My god, this was boring writing, wasn’t it? Did it advance the story? Not to his mind today. Slash, cut.
After tough decisions on two chapters, the rest went with stunning, engrossing speed. Fifty pages were read and edited in the next two hours.
Just fifty pages remained, for this go-around. Then there’d be another. Because he needed to ensure the book made sense with the cuts made. That he hadn’t inadvertently destroyed continuity and coherence.
But for today and now, he felt pretty damn good about it.
Michael Seidel, writer 