Well, my most esteemed readers, physically separated from my Viper XIX friends I sit here munching on snacks and pondering the impact of the past six days on myself as a person, on my writing, on my life, and on my place in the universe.
Well, as a person I’m still pretty much the same jerk few barely tolerate. Perhaps the most profound change has been a small increase in my ability to accept the occasional compliment, as in “Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say” will now be my standard response. Thank you, Steven Brust. That was very nice of you.
How did this week change me as a writer . . . hmm . . . let me put it like this:
As a writer, I’ve live within a controlled shell. Namely, very few people see my writing. Sure, it’s posted here, but “here” has low traffic, and that traffic is mostly interested in my “amazing” photos. (Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.)
Were I a press operator, I would require the remaining fingers on both hands to count readers of my fiction (somewhere between four and six).
VP XIX gave me the confidence to venture beyond my shell.
During my time here in the Vineyard, I found my writing stones, my submitting stones. The stones empowering me to look outside the safety of this little world of mine.
I will apply what I learned this week to my craft — yes, I said ‘craft’, because it is a craft and I will endeavor to approach it as such — and submit the result without fear or insecurity or shame. I will start an agent search, polish my novels, polish my short stories, and when to at least my eyes they shine, send them to sail the four winds, I will . . . or is it eight winds? . . . sixteen? Whatever, there will be stuff on the wind. In the wind?
. . . maybe I’m just fooling myself. Maybe all I learned is a new level of fear.
Those be but details for copy editors to fix. My job is crafting stories which will rip someone’s guts out, shred their hearts, and render their minds inoperative. Then, my job is selling those stories along with a disclaimer. Something about not being responsible for ripping guts, shredding hearts, and causing mental malfunctions.
Yes. I came to the Vineyard and found my stones.
My writing stones . . .
. . . and my submitting stones . . .
They may be old, they may be worn, and they may be tired, but they are my stones, and I found them here (on a beach not far from the Inn), and I’m bringing them home with me.
Will they affect my life, my universe? Who knows?
Perhaps this path was mine all along. Perhaps I will be me no matter what I do (I kind of like me, so I hope so). Perhaps tomorrow another path will open, one I’ve yet to imagine.
But, for now, lead on, oh my stones.
One more thing. I’ve been meaning to use this photo, and this seems as an opportune time as any. The photo is a view from the sixth tee of the Cherokee Ridge Golf Club in Colorado Springs.
We sat under a shelter as a storm dropped rain and lightning around us, my friend and I. It moved slow, that storm, and it looked as if we might have to abandon the hope of finishing our round. And then it passed, that storm, and in its wake, it left us this sight.
Perhaps, this be a metaphor of sorts. That is a very nice shot, and although one might not think that it can be improved, one can certainly try. The result may not be to everyone’s liking, but nothing ever is. All I can do is get it to where I like it and then share it.
That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.
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. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.