Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, November 18, 2007
$100 Film Festival
Okay... so I said I was doing NaNoWriMo this year but I've been too busy. Check back in March to see if I manage to do NaNoEdMo. Why have I been so crazy busy? Because I'm on the $100 Film Festival committee and our Call for Submissions deadline is December 1, 2007. Between running the festival's MySpace site and contacting artists, as well as editing my own film submission, NaNo just had to take a back seat.
But all of this focus on film has led me to ponder the writer's strike. See next post...
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The 3-Day Novel Contest
Grand Prize: Publication (summer 2008)
2nd Prize: $500 cash
3rd Prize: A great literary prize pack
You have to register for the contest by August 31, 2007 so if you're interested, you'd better hurry up and sign up. And be sure to check out their Survival Guide and the Community Forums... I would imagine that both of them are probably essential if you're to maintain some shred of sanity during this event.
For those of you who decide to do this: Good luck! And may whatever gods of writing you worship be with you during this period of temporary insanity.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Scribble Scratch Contest
Saturday, June 30, 2007
The House on Salem Hill
Amy came outside of the old house for some fresh air. The house had been standing since the days of the Salem witch trials. Amy had discovered it in her genealogy research and it had proven to be a goldmine. Abandoned for decades, the attic still had some trunks and boxes with photos and letters and discarded knick knacks, mostly belonging to her ancestors. It was a genealogist's dream come true. But it was dusty musty work and Amy needed to clear her head and her lungs.
The wind picked up and Amy looked at the sky, at the dark clouds converging in a swirling mass above the house. Amy's skin prickled and it wasn't with cold. The sky reminded Amy of something. What was it? Something that she'd just read. Then she remembered. The very last entry of one of the diaries she had read described a sky just like that. The diary of Abigail Helme, her 7th great-grandaunt. The woman who had disappeared on the night of that last entry.
Amy shivered and went back inside, unaware of the flash of light in the grove of trees behind the house. Something shimmered in the darkness under the trees, trying desperately to take form. Then it was gone. For now.