I've been writing a lot lately. The pressure has slowed up at work, so I'm not coming home anymore feeling too tired to think, let alone be creative. I've also been on leave all this week, which has been utterly wonderful. I've got several chapters of CALLED written, including figuring out a plot point that was fighting me. I've also written a few short stories. Hopefully I'll find a venue for them to be published, or perhaps put a bunch of them together and try them out on Smashwords. Would anyone be interested in buying an ebook of my short stories that way? Let me know.
In Sylph book news, the only new thing I've heard is that Amazon is planning to rerelease the first three Sylph books in the new year. I don't know when. I also don't know if they're going to buy book four. This process always takes a painfully long amount of time.
Yesterday (okay, today at about two am), I was inspired to write a poem. Figured I'd toss it up here for you to enjoy. Hope you like it.
If I do publish a book of short stories, would people be interested in my including some of my poetry in it? I have a few that are epics and storyline based.
INSPIRATION IS A FICKLE BITCH
Shall I make it difficult
To drag out from the dark,
With screaming wails and lashing sobs
An inspiration spark?
It never has been simple
To harpoon ghostly whales,
Who crest and blow and then are gone
'Neath black and depthless veils.
'Tis sometimes like to waiting
In a blind for morn,
And the rapid beat of waking wings
Risen by the horn
So many say the bait to use
Is bloody red for ink,
Drawn from the very heart of thought
And bottled, drained, and linked
It's true if it's not difficult
Then none will see the point,
And will not strive for greater peaks
And risk the disappoint.
Or perhaps it should come easy
A flowing from the pen,
To keep you coming back for more
When stripped away again.