High Plains Writer and Graduate School Update

I haven't written on the blog in a few days because Graduate school got so ridiculously busy in very quick hurry. To update you all, in honor of receiving my loan money, I purchased the smallest, cutest, most wonderful laptop the world has ever seen and a fantastic camera to chronicle my life here in Richmond, away from my man and family.

Also, on the graduate school front, I've been attending a most brilliant Fiction workshop in which we critique each other's work and discuss various theories of fiction. Last night we talked about how, in fiction, we have expectations which are usually crushed when the writer giving us what we've always been given - the cliche expected ending. We're charmed by the writer and the work when they turn the story in an unexpected way and suprise us, even if the suprise is unpleasant. This simple bit of advice and theory has made me carefully reconsider North of the Line and the turns of plot I've chosen for that story. I'll update you on this as these thoughts develop.

Also, we reviewed my piece, given below. Everyone had great critique for me, but I thought I would let you all have a gander at it as well.

Out on the high plains, where the mesas rose up like old fortresses against the sky, red and craggy against the rising moon, the low cry of the lobo rolled up to meet the newborn stars. Lora, her curves and angles beautiful in the dusk, curled up beside Benjamin, her head on his shoulder. He kept his hands behind his head, watching the clouds skid across the constellations.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m thinking I don’t like that question.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said. She smiled, pushing him just enough so that he would push her back. He rolled her over, pinning her against their blanket, smiling widely.

“What are you thinking?” she asked again, laughing when he slumped down beside her, as if in defeat.

“I’m thinking that I like living with you,” he said. “I’m thinking that you worry too much, but that things will be alright.”

“You don’t know that,” she said. “The doctors don’t even know.”

“They got me on enough antibiotics to down a horse, Lori,” he said. “Everything’ll be fine.” He smiled and it was pale beneath the sickle moon. He motioned to her and she lay back down beside him and there by the lonely mesas, stars fell, dragging fire behind them like signal torches. As the night eased on and Benjamin pointed out the constellations to her, tracing the lines of light, connecting the dots, the radio in his truck played one of those high lonely mountain songs, and the melody drifted out over the grassland.

Holding the Line.
Bri