Still cutting. I've whittled it down to 102,600 words. Pretty sure I can knock off another 1k plus. I worried taking so much out would dilute the story. The worry is false. I find it easier to read and follow with the bullshit out of the way. But it's a process- long and painstaking.

I enjoy it to the point of obsession.

Knowing Where You're From

It's the time of year where the sun hits at a certain angle at certain times of the day and brings back memories. Almost as if you can go back to a place and time, right there in your head, and it's an absolutely pure feeling.  

On days like this I'm reminded of why I like writing crime fiction, especially here in St. Pete. A good majority of crime novels based in Florida always seem to revolve around the boat set: fishing, beach bars, "Florida Man" type things. I like to view things from the other side of the coin, from the downtrodden point of view. 

Maybe it's because I grew up in a place where most people didn't have much. Life can be hard in rural America. I like people who don't have much but always push forward. People who get themselves deep in shit and have to work out their situation. Those are the folks I write about.

When people read my work, I want them to feel what I feel while I'm writing- the grasping at straws, anxiety, and dark humor. Of hope and despair. I want to push them through a jungle of deceit and pain. I want them to know there are people out there on the fringes who are just like us save a mistake here or there. A mistake that changed the course of their life. And that any of our lives can be altered, whether intended or not.

Back to work.

The Cut

It's a beautiful day here in Florida and I'm working lowering on the word count for my crime novel. My original draft came in at around 115,000 words. My second draft came in at around 108,500 and I was very confident with the end product. But feedback from agents suggests more work is needed and the challenge is welcome. I'm currently at around 103,700 words with no plot or character cuts.

On a side note, I'm also re-working my query. Or I may just burn it, bury it in the backyard with the other bodies and start over. Either way, I'll make it work.

Keep Working

Years have passed by. I never stopped writing, just did things different for a time. I've come full circle. Time to swap that photo at the right for an older, better version.

My novel is making the rounds to agents. It's a hell of a process but I've embraced it- I'm too stubborn to do otherwise and I like the challenge feedback brings. In the meantime, I grind. I work. I believe in the words I put down.

What I haven't done is submit a new short story in a long time. Years. And I've got quite a few stories on tap. I'm currently looking for new outlets for my crime fiction (3-5k word range) and suggestions are welcome. 

No Witty Titles Needed

The dire straits of our individual yet coherent situations. The relation is universal.

Stay chill.

DIRGE—68 at Shotgun Honey

Got a new story, DIRGE—68 over at Shotgun Honey. If you get a chance to check it out, I'd consider it mucho appreciado.

The 700 word format was a challenge. A good challenge. The takeaway: The Shotgun crew are tops.

Stay chill.

EVERYONE LEAVES IN THE END

Put the cat down today. Old gal was with us for 13 years. Got her when we had nothing.

We were living in an old trailer home in a cow pasture near Antonino, KS. An old farmer stopped by, had this little ball of black fur. He asked if we wanted it because if we didn't he was going to take it to the pond and drown it. Too many feral cats can cause a lot of problems and he had too many the way it was.

We took her in. We took her from KS to FL, screaming all the way.

She was anti-social. She made her own way. She ran the roost. I often felt my wife and I were her puppets—she just had that kind of personality.

But over the last few months she quit eating. We tried different foods, which only worked for awhile. This past week she gave up completely.

Last night Kitty vomited thin black blood. The jig was up.

The old doc gave it too me straight: kidneys are shot. She's shot. I knew this. I cannot and will not let an animal suffer.

The doc put her down—two seconds and she was Gone City.

Kitty—she was a good cat.

I buried her between two crepe myrtles in our back yard.