I wish there was a secret I could uncover that would guarantee a well-written book. I don’t necessarily mean a best seller; I don’t even mean one that makes a buck or two. What I do mean is one that is grammatically correct and speaks with an easy-to-follow point of view, a book that flows flawlessly from beginning to end.
This rewrite that I started in early January has been a major undertaking—maybe not a good idea to mention undertaker at this point—but I hope it’ll be for the better. I’m almost finished (boy, has the story changed) but I haven’t yet started my final read-through for verifying the story flow. That always needs tweaking.
I’ll end this post with a short poem garnered from time in the woods with my bow and arrow.
That time of day in late October,
before the North Wind rattles the bones;
when the ginger sun has finally slipped from sight
and the cotton sky is on fire.
Those last moments before the blanket of night
gently settles upon the deep woods,
they awaken for their fifteen minutes of daily fame:
Insects emerge, anxious for the darkness of night;
Chickadees flit to gather the feast;
the fox squirrel prowls the floor while the feisty red
complains of others in his space.
This is the time when everything is alive;
when the veil falls and night descends,
it is the time of the raccoon, deer, and owl;
creatures of the night.
This is the time when the whitetail deer
rises from his bed on hillside or swamp
to begin his daily search for food.
Posted on Sun, February 18, 2018
by Dale Swanson