I started my spring cleaning in April. I’m not talking the housecleaning and elimination of clutter you might expect. That doesn’t happen in a household of borderline hoarders with their imaginative heads in the clouds. As they say, an untidy home is the sign of a creative mind, and we have oodles of creativity here.
No, my spring cleaning was of the writerly variety. I started in April by taking everything I had yet to be published and ready for submission that was sitting on the shelf gathering dust and sent every single one of those stories out to an appropriate venue. I even finished two older stories that were kicking around incomplete and sent them out too. It was liberating in a strange way, like I had unburdened myself in the process. I’ve already had some success from the venture too, a couple of acceptances along with a handful of rejections (about a 40/60 success rate so far.)
Now that I’ve cleaned away the writing clutter, I’m working on the edits I’ve been putting off for a while, prepping things for submission at some point in the near future, readying query letters and just organizing what I have on the go. I want everything tidied up for the summer, when I’ll be working on the next Fervor novel followed by my NaNo project late fall. This isn’t the most productive year for me for an assortment of reasons. I’m hoping a round of solid clean-up will help change that.
To finish this up, I’ll give you a little taste at what I’ve been editing, a fantasy novel based on Sami mythology, called The Trading of Skin:
Ignoring any protests Dáidu and Jaská might have, Oaván turned to meet the oncoming spirit-hunters. Jaská had once described them as looking like men but having something essentially wrong with them. Oaván felt she was partially right. They did have the shape of men, but nothing beyond that suggested they were anything like the Sami people. Oaván could now detect the odour his mother had complained of. They smelled of anger, fear and death, of broken promises and sullied souls. Just being in their presence carried with it a strong sense of foreboding and a bone-piercing chill, things Oaván had not noticed before because of the distraction of other discomforts. He felt trapped by their stares, their eyes burning embers beneath creased brows as they leered at Lieđđi hungrily. Oaván refused to succumb to their intimidation, holding steady.