Okay, now we're getting somewhere! Spent most of the day today, along with a good chunk of yesterday, working on the opening to the Wannoshay novel, really focusing on the world-building and the extrapolation of our world in about 20 years (if it keeps going at its current pace, it's not gonna be pretty, as my novel portrays, unfortunately). And damned if I'm not getting into this and thinking that this novel has some really good potential, after all this time.

There was something thin about this novel before now, and while I don't claim that I've fixed everything, I think I'm on the right track. Basically, the story is that aliens arrive here on Earth, but the Earth they encounter is already a huge frickin' mess, and they're almost overlooked in our war-torn, terrorist-ridden, poverty-stricken country. Oh, and I've included Canada in with America, as some of the ships hit the Great White North as well, so it's not just the US of A that's getting pummeled. Soury, folks.

I owe huge, huge thanks to fellow writers Jim Hines, Alan DeNiro, Rachel Heslin, Lee Capps, and Andreas Black for their very timely feedback on the first 100 pages of this novel. Luckily I'd fixed a lot of issues Alan had with it already, and Jim and Rachel really gave me some solid feedback to keep me focused. Huge thanks to EVERYONE. This poor novel has been read by so many people, I wonder who's gonna buy it once it ever gets published.

And yes, I fully expect it to get published.

Finally, I'm looking forward to reading The Scar by China Mieville, at last at last. I read the prologue and got sucked in immediately. Great stuff. If only I could stop the world for a day or two and read it all the way through. I'm looking forward to it. Reading his little snippet with the he-cray got me pumped up about writing again yesterday, and I've been on a roll ever since.

That's what great books do for me -- make me want to attempt to write the same. Later!

Now Playing:
"World without Tears," Lucinda Williams

Now Reading:
The Scar, China Mieville

Stories out to Publishers:
15

Today's Words:
2,500

Words for '03:
108,700

Today's Quote:
"True history," Johndo said in a clear voice inside Joshua's head. He placed the final metal page into the wall of his room.

White light shot straight out from each of the sheets, cutting the room in half, top to bottom. Joshua choked on his own breath, thinking he'd been blinded at first. When he blinked and took a breath, smelling Johndo's comforting odor of salt and mud instead of the bitter burnt-coffee smell, he saw that he was in a darkened cave filled with the People.

The darkness was staved off by a greenish glow coming from strands of lichen attached to the rough angle formed where the cave wall met the cave ceiling. The walls were ridged and irregular, as if carved out by hand. Over two dozen gray skinned People stood on all fours, huddled around a trio of lighter-skinned People, males, with long bluish-black hair tentacles and scars crisscrossing the length of their bare chests. Joshua's eyes adjusted immediately to the gloom, and then he saw the same scene sideways. Too shocked to move or speak, Joshua could only watch as the People pushed forward, reaching for the three males, who inched backwards until they were up against the cave wall. High-pitched voices sang a Wannoshay word that Joshua couldn't translate, a word of too many vowels and not enough hard consonants, louder and louder, until it threatened to wash over him and overwhelm him. Screaming voices joined the singing voice, and Joshua felt himself pulled along with the flow of gray bodies, reaching forward, almost melting into one another. The singing stopped, but the anguished screaming doubled, and then tripled in intensity. Bits of long, bluish-black hair filled the air, landing in the glowing lichen above him and dousing the cave with darkness. Before a scream of his own could escape his lips, the vision ended.

Joshua lay on his side on the floor of Johndo's room, hands over his ears and gasping for breath. He couldn't smell anything now except his own sweat.

A tentative hand touched the front of his shirt.

"Yotchooa?"