In The Monster’s Mouth
By Michael Scott
The arms of the Wooden Rocket move slowly. Eventually my hand is taken. Something cold and hard coils about my wrist. I climb the stairs, into the glimmer. Trying to blink the light out of my eyes, I see only the grand, formless white.
The tree speaks to me, “your iris isn’t strong enough yet. Give yourself time.”
So here I am. Feeling like I’m in the belly of the beast, but surely, still barely past its lips. It has been six weeks now. My head hurts, and I can’t really breath, but I’m seeing the first few basic shapes, the outline of something magnificent, and David, the beating heart of this monster, is offering to host my blog.
Back in the real world, it’s new years eve, but in here. . . it’s dawn.
Circuits are being rewired. Breakers switches being replaced. Star charts are being redrawn. Fuel is being sourced. Voices are being raised in both argument and song. We’re taking our little space ship to the god damned moon over here, and were going via the Orian Nebula, so buckle the hell up, and try not to get blown out an air lock.
I can’t say much right now — because I’m still seeing everything in low contrast, high luminous grey scale — but, fiction fans, if I were you, I’d bookmark us, in the new year. Dave and I have big plans for this place. We’ve got five new books on the horizon for 2011, including the new volume of Blank State, and a sinister little work of my own creation, but that’s not even the bark of the oak tree.
Between book launches, and gigantic announcements, I’ll be here, in the monster’s mouth, blind and furious, creating content for you as hard as I bloody well can. If you swing by every couple of weeks, I’ll try to keep you entertained.
follow me on twooter @woodrocketmike