Nice looking film, but paint-by-numbers dull. Probably should have gone with the new Apes movie instead.
Life’s too short to be so bored.
Most of last week’s writing time was spent working on critiques for the writing workshop at WorldCon. Still reading and making notes at this point, but progress has been decent if not spectacular.
Sometimes I think I put too much work into these things. Other times, I’m sure of it. A colleague once dubbed me Matt the Merciless. That’s not to say I’m particularly vicious (at least, I hope that wasn’t what he meant), but I am . . . thorough. Ask anyone who has ever been critiqued by me. And pay no mind if they start to weep uncontrollably at the mere mention of my name. I get that a lot.
‘Twixt now and my departure for Reno, I have to finish up these crits, take care of some business concerns, and get back to work on the New Potential Novel Project. It’s time to find out for sure whether or not I actually have a novel here.
Write Club update: Personal rejection from Fantastic Stories of the Imagination. Response time, a little over four months.
Onward.
Last week’s writing time was spent working on a rewrite for "Odd Jobs." Had a deadline.
(I just love saying that. It always makes me feel like a real writer.)
This was a pretty minor rewrite, but one I’m glad I did. The editorial direction I’d gotten made clear that the editor knew exactly what I was going for in this story, and her suggestions really helped bring that out more clearly. Always a nice feeling when you and your editor are on the same page. So to speak.
As a reminder to those playing along at home: "Odd Jobs" will appear in a forthcoming issue of Buzzy Mag. Care for a snippet?
Most of the basement level had been finished as a rec room: white carpet, wood paneling, bookshelves, an old couch-and-love-seat set. Steve peered into corners and crevices, found only a few cobwebs.
The utility room was yet unfinished. The floor was concrete, the walls bare cinder block. Steve checked around the furnace and behind the washer and dryer. He was about to dig into the storage space under the basement stairs when he noticed a dark stain on the floor, about the size of a saucer.
He knelt. In the dim light, the stain appeared almost black–with perhaps a hint of maroon. He touched trembling fingers to it, found it cool and sticky. He held his fingers to his face. The reddish tinge of the stain became unmistakable.
Blood. Not quite dried.
No updates for Write Club.
And th-th-that’s all, folks. For now.
Welcome to Matthew S. Rotundo's home page. Matt is an award-winning writer of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Read more about him here.
