Big News

So friends, I have news to share. I've been waiting to post it to this blog until the opportune moment, and I apologize to those of you who've heard all this before, perhaps multiple times. No need to read it if that's the case. After all, what follows is rather lengthy . . . .

Story, story. Stooory. Once upon a time. Time, time. (You'll get it if you're from Nigeria).

Earlier this month, I attended the Write to Publish conference in Wheaton. I went with the goal of pitching a novel that I've written, currently titled Days to Destruction. For those of you who follow this blog, you read a few chapters of an early draft under the titles Gods and Chaos and Days of Telenine. I'm still not sure how happy I am with the new title, for the record.

Before leaving for the conference, I researched all the editors, publishers, and agents who would be in attendance, and realized that I really wanted to pitch to Rowena Kuo of Brimstone Fiction. Unfortunately, I also realized that she would be judging the Editor's Choice Award, given annually at Write to Publish. Brimstone is a traditional speculative-fiction publisher (spec-fic is "weird stuff" for all you non-nerdy types), and I was especially excited that Brimstone targets the general market, not just Christian markets. The Editor's Choice Award comes with a publishing option and full mentorship, both of which are uber cool. But in the end, I was dissapointed that Rowena was judging it because I knew everyone would want to pitch to her, and that would make it difficult to find a time. But find a time I did, and the pitch went pretty well. She asked if I was planning to attend her manuscript critique group, one of the steps in the award process. She probably asked that of everyone with a decent pitch.

The critique group also went well. Then she asked if I'd be attending her novel proposal critique group. I hadn't been. My full proposal was several months old and badly in need of editing. But I figured that saying no was a bad idea, so I stayed up that night and stitched some things together. The next day, my tablet acted up in the middle of the session, so I decided to let it pass. But when the last person had finished, there were still a few extra minutes. So what the heck? Besides a little dignity, what had I to lose? As the tablet drained of its last battery in updates, I managed to present basically everything I wanted. Then Mrs. Kuo asked to borrow overnight the manuscript hardcopy I had with me. I hope you can imagine my anxiety as I said yes and spent a fretful night trying not to think about it. Felt like a dagger to the gut, I'm telling you.

The next day was the last of the conference, at the end of which would be the final banquet, where the awards are presented. I only saw Mrs. Kuo once, on a sidewalk where she offered my manuscript back. I asked if she had any input, and she said yes, but she'd like me to send it to her. That was really cool, but I confess I'd been halfway hoping that I had a shot at the Editor's Choice Award. Anyway, I went to get cleaned up, then made my way to the banquet. Such good food. I'm telling you, Write to Publish is worth it just for that chicken stuffed with spinach and dribbled in tangy orange sauce! But really. Good. Stuff.

When the meal finished, they announced the awards. The first two recipients of different awards weren't actually present, and then Mrs. Kuo went up to announce the Editor's Choice Award. She shuffled a paper out of a manila envelope. She spoke a name.

And it turned out that I won.

Me holding the award, standing with Rowena Kuo (left) and Cindy Huff, last year's winner of the Editor's Choice Award. Perhaps providentially, Mrs. Huff is actually the wife of the man who advised me in how to prepare for the conference. We were randomly assigned to be a "Paul and Timothy" mentoring pair beforehand. It worked! Also, I plan to write a blog post on preparing for Writing Conferences, but in the mean time, you should really check out Cindy's blog, located here.

Thanks for reading, friends! If you slogged through all that, you're really cool and I really appreciate that. Not that I wouldn't and you aren't if you hadn't, but I think you understand. smile emoticon Thanks. I'll be working with someone from Brimstone Fiction over the coming while to edit further drafts of my manuscript. Ultimately, the goal of publication lies at the end of the long darkness.

Oh, here's a short write-up about the award from my college, Taylor University.

Story over!

Glasswalker: Reflections

The Lie

Frankie struck the mirror. In his mind, he was thinking of the other mirror he'd just exited from. But he also held the memory of the mirror he'd just struck. Two mirrors, their memories held equally in his mind. Somehow, he felt his mind stretch. He gave a mental push. Something popped.

Steam misted, sound muffled, then he stumbled back out the other side. Two images were in his vision, like he was seeing cross-eyed. It brought a wave of nausea, but Frankie shoved it down. With that shove, he was back to seeing only one image . . . yet he could still sense the other, could still direct it in a tucked away corner of his mind.

There was the Parasite, standing directly ahead in the hallway. Not a mirror image this time; the real monster. And, beyond the Parasite, there was someone else. It was Frankie.

"You see the whole," Frankie said. "And I'm a part of that whole, so you can always see me. But now I've made myself two parts."

The Parasite shrieked: a wrathful, rising sound. "No!"

"Oh I'm sorry," Frankie said. "Was I not supposed to do that?" He gave his cheekiest of grins.

Honestly, he wasn't sure exactly how he had done it, or why. It had just felt right. Instinct. The instinct of the fae, perhaps. Could he do it again?

The Parasite launched itself at the alternate Frankie. Frankie's mind focused into that one's body; controlling it, he sidestepped. But the Parasite wasn't going for him. It struck the mirror, slammed itself against it, the mirror that this alternate Frankie had stepped from. A spiderweb of cracks shattered its face. The alternate Frankie exploded into jagged fragments of light that melted quickly into the air.

The real Frankie gasped. He mind zoomed back into his body, and he vomited from the inertia and the sudden sense of loss. His puke splattered the floor.

"No matter," the Parasite said to him. His chilling smile had returned. "I've fought those of you capable of making reflections. You weren't supposed to, but I can deal with this. It is nothing more than an annoyance."

"No," Frankie said. He gritted his teeth. "The mirrors are mine." He launched himself at another mirror, creating another reflection across the hallway from him. He reached up a hand; his fingertips met the fingertips of the reflection for the briefest of seconds. They both looked at the Parasite as he charged.

Frankie stepped back into the mirror. Another reflection, who stepped out behind the Parasite. And then again, creating another ahead of him. And another . . . and another . . . .

The reflections began to fight, Hammering the Parasite from all sides. He went for their mirrors, shattering them and their bodies. Sometimes he sank his claw-nails into a reflection's chest, and it shattered along with its mirror. As fast as he killed them, Frankie created them.

A purple bruise blossomed on the Parasite's cheek. Blood dribbled from his lip.

He ripped a reflection's heart out. Sank his teeth into a reflection's heart. Smashed one's head against its own mirror.

Frankie felt each death, like losing a part of himself. And he could still feel them. Phantom limbs: he'd heard them described this way. But he was gaining them quickly, and the birth of a new reflection did nothing to assuage the passing of an older one.

All the reflections closed in; the real Frankie joined them. An all-out assault, pressing against the Parasite, trying to crush him with bodies. Then he forced a circle of space around himself and he screamed.

It was like before, but the scream rose higher, raged longer, filled the labyrinth like a coursing river of ice. Mirrors shattered. Reflections vanished in blinding light. The real Frankie covered his ears and found himself yelling.

The Parasite's face drained even whiter, if possible, and he fell to his knees. He and Frankie locked eyes. Then Frankie stabbed him.

He left it in the eye socket: a broken fragment of glass. It had sliced the skin of Frankie's palm when he grabbed it. In a way, it was a sliver of one of his own reflections.

The Parasite tumbled over.

Frankie jerked gasping breaths into his lungs. He blinked, and the hallway returned to normal. All the mirrors were fixed. Little sign of the recent battle.

But Frankie's hand still bled. The Parasite's body still lay on the floor, blood pooling under it.

Frankie knew instinctively that he would be able to escape, now. He wanted to leave. But he had one thing left to do.

He stumbled down the hallways, not mirrorwalking, using his regular legs. The stench of rot grew stronger. Finally, he came upon the body of the girl. Another mirrowalker, the Parasite had said. A dead one. Although the stench was overpowering, Frankie stooped, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and slowly stood. She deserved a proper burial. Then, looking no more at the maze of mirrors, he stepped into the wall ahead of him.

He walked away from the Parasite's lair.

The Truth

All done with the mirrorwalker story. Thanks for reading! Sorry it took so long; another idea has seized me. It is simple and sad and insistent. I don't think I'll be posting any of it to this blog, however.

Whew! Have a good night.