If last week’s theme was NaPiBoWriWee, and the week before that was Unclutter Your Life in One Week, then this week is preparation for the Big Sur in the Rockies conference this weekend. I couldn’t resist attending because it takes place here in Boulder, and it will give me the chance to workshop two manuscripts in very small groups with the prominent agents, editors and authors on faculty. I’ve put aside the new shiny pennies that I wrote last week, and now I’m revising a few manuscripts that are more polished and that I think have the most promise. One of them is one that I had critiqued at the SCBWI New York conference in January, although the current iteration bears little resemblance to the version I took with me to New York. I’ve made dozens of revisions since then, and it’s gotten a lot stronger.
Yet, when I opened it this morning and read it and the latest critiques I’ve gotten, I couldn’t help but get the first few lines of Shakespeare’s sonnet #130 in my head. Because although I truly love and believe in this story, when I compare it to those of the masters, I can’t help but think:
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, then black wires on her head.
(Although I won’t go so far as to say it has reeky breath!)
I am very nervous about this weekend. I really, really want to get some positive feedback – some sense that I am headed in the right direction. So I continue to labor over my love, and at the end of the week I’m going to slap some lipstick on that lady, get her some highlights and hope she passes muster!
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.