It. Is. Freezing. It's 30 below right now with the wind. The coldest it's been all year and it's not going to let up anytime soon. I went to an open mic night at the Center for the Arts tonight. I hadn't read in public since Iowa City, so it was a little nerve-wracking, but I had a lot of fun. I read a couple newer poems, "The New Girlfriend", and "Surface", which I wrote for an art project my brother and I plan to do. There was another wonderful poet there named Pat King, who read all sorts of style poetry, Slam, some rap, some sermons, it was great.
The trap of the bottle rocket writer. Because they take off and then go "BOOM!"
"Look, if she's bludgeoned to death, I want to make sure we see some blood."
I got back on the novel horse Thursday night. What else to do but write a big fat novel when there's half a foot of wind driven snow on the ground, right? I think I've decided to go ahead with the space-noir thing; I think I finally cracked the voice of this piece last night. Sometimes I will listen to people talking, especially if they have a beautiful voice (this woman on Project Runway from South Africa, Kara, has the sexiest accent I have ever heard; I really only listen to the show while I'm working, just for her). And then sometimes that voice catches in your head. They just start talking. So you listen. It takes on its own patterns and inflections, its own tones, and you've discovered a hybrid-demon baby voice that works gangbusters for your novel.