Two days ago, the registration packet for the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer's annual conference came in the mail. I got inordinately excited. A collection of wonderful workshops, chances to rub elbows with agents and editors, a pitch session, and, hopefully, a chance to see all the lovely ladies in my critique group again. What isn't to like? Well, besides the price tag, but I can easily justify that. And the fact that it's not until September. Though, of course, that just gives me more time to finish polishing before I pitch.

This past week on the writing front has been all Savior, all the time. Mercedes Lackey says that she loves writing revisions, but I much prefer first-drafts. I like getting all the stuff out there, and being able to play and not have to worry about the continuity or whether or not this plot twist is necessary or whether this sentence is much too long. I've been mucking through revisions for what feels like forever now. I know it means I'll have a nice, polished product at the end, but at some point, it just gets tedious. Good thing realizing that I can have a pitch appointment in five months seems to have given me a kick in the butt! I'm almost done with the major revisions and can move onto tweaking.

I would normally put an excerpt from this week in this space, but seeing as I'm currently reworking the middle section of the book, I feel that a snippet might give rather more away than I'd like to put out there at the moment. So, instead, I'll leave you with an excerpt from the beginning of the book. The first two paragraphs, to be exact.

Seven-thirty Ikol Avenue was a small, one-story house straight out of a children’s book: white picket fence, blue tiled roof, red and white checked curtains in the window, a beautifully sculpted, tulip-shaped knocker, and a spattering of blood on the doorstep. 

Trick Mathis hesitated at the gate, his back ramrod straight. His normally pale skin was a sickly shade of yellow, his delicate nostrils flared at the expected scent of blood. He tried to swallow in a dry throat. When that failed, he pulled the black uniform collar over his mouth and nose and pinned it in place  with the bridge of his oval-shaped spectacles. 

Oljiru kovy.