I always thought he would be there. He lingered on the fringes of my childhood, lurked in the dawn of my teenage years, became cheerily mainstream through my college days and beyond. There is no time in my living memory when he didn’t exist. Until now.
I never bought a Bowie album growing up–I didn’t have to. The radio played his songs. Friends played his albums. People hummed and sang the tunes. Everywhere I turned, there he was. I saw him on television, dressed as Ziggy Stardust, and thought, Who is this magnificent creature, and why can I not be like him?
Bowie created art not only in the form of music and raw, emotional paintings, but in surprisingly engaging performances in films like The Man Who Fell to Earth, The Hunger, Labyrinth, and The Prestige. I didn’t know much about him and I didn’t want to know. He existed as a chameleon, an enigma, a person who was all things and yet nothing in particular.
They call the most iconic performers stars. In most cases, this moniker is a misnomer, but for him, it was true. Like a brilliant point of light, I could not look at him directly. He was too much for me; I had to encounter him peripherally. He was my first encounter with androgyny, with mystique, and with the idea that one could reinvent oneself endlessly. Every time I saw him, he looked different, did different things.
This both fascinated and thrilled me, and it still does. I knew if he could do this, keep starting over, exploring new venues and endless permutations of art and expression, I could too. I did not have to be bound by my upbringing. I too could be weird and proud of it. I could experiment with genre and form and buck the conventions of branding and those who would pigeonhole my work. What I want to create, I can. No one can stop me.
This is the lesson David Bowie taught me. He crashed flamboyantly into my life and the lives of millions and left us just as quietly, without letting us know we would have a reason to mourn. He did not share his pain and struggle with us but chose to give us one last gift instead–the complex and gorgeous album Blackstar. I ended my journey with him by purchasing my first Bowie album tonight and listening to it with tears streaming down my face.
Rest in peace, sir. You’ve earned it.
Happy New Year! It’s time for the annual WordPress report again!
I don’t know what 2016 will bring, but I have a few plans. They include the following:
- A renewed push in querying and submissions. I already sent one (yeah, I know it’s not the best time of year for that because of people’s New Year’s resolutions and the aftermath of NaNoWriMo, but too bad). Tunerville has the best chance, I think, but we’ll see.
- To complete Secret Book and begin the Rose’s Hostage sequel. I’ve made quite a few notes for the latter. Still working out a subplot, though.
- The upcoming April blog challenge–time to get busy on a plan for that one!
- I’m hoping to go to Europe this year–not sure when, but you’ll get to see/hear about it. Italy is definitely on the list because of something in Secret Book, but I have friends in Germany, Poland, Czech Republic, and Belgium I’d like to visit. It’s time I ventured out of the UK. But don’t worry, UK; I still love you! I’ll be sure to see you again!
Many thanks to everyone who stopped by in 2015. I wish you a happy, safe, and amazing New Year!
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 8,100 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 7 trips to carry that many people.
Happy Christmas (Eve), everybody!
I am hanging with the fam today and tomorrow. We did presents tonight and will do the rest with my brother’s family on Christmas Day. So far, I’m a bit gobsmacked–I actually liked all the presents I got so far. Usually my family miss the mark, but this time they did pretty well.
Didn’t know Williams-Sonoma carried F&M tea, though now that I do, I’m in really big trouble. It’s cheaper than buying it in London (no airfare)–but not nearly as much fun.
For Christmas, I have decided to share a slightly spooky story with you. It was written some time ago and I can’t seem to find a home for it, but this is as good as any. In ye olde England, there used to be a tradition of telling ghostly or spooky stories round the fire at Christmas. (This undoubtedly is why A Christmas Carol is so damn scary.)
My story is not a patch on Charles Dickens’, but I hope you like it anyway. It’s called The Shiny Folk. When most people think of fairies, they picture Tinkerbell, Peter Pan’s tiny companion, or the Blue Fairy in Pinocchio who made the titular puppet into a real boy. But traditional fair folk were not minuscule mascots or angelic wish-granters. People feared them, and they held much power. In this story, a man named Jed finds that out the hard way.
Seriously, Rose’s Hostage is one of the only things I’ve ever written that doesn’t have something weird in it. :P
I have posted it below. Have a safe and happy Christmas, and if you’re not celebrating the holiday, have a wonderful weekend!
The Shiny Folk
© 2011 By Elizabeth West
Telling about what happened is sort of like living it all over again. I don’t like it much, ‘cause as far as I’m concerned, it’s over with. I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not.
It was last spring, about early May I think. Me and my daddy were out driving his cattle from one pasture to another when I seen something lying on the ground, right about where the old oak tree used to be, before it kicked the bucket the year before and had to be turned into kindling. It sort of sparkled and I made a little detour to pick it up, thinking someone had lost something that might be valuable. I was gonna look at it but just then one of the cows made a break for it, and I stuck it in my pocket and forgot it.
Later on that night, while watching TV with my wife in the living room, I remembered it. I stuck my hand in my pocket and fished it out.
“What’s that?” my wife asked, busy with her knitting. She was always sewing or stitching or something. She made all four of our kid’s clothes, ‘cept the last one, who liked to dress like some gang thug, the way kids do nowadays. Seemed like she got some kind of solace out of keeping her hands busy, since our last kid had just scooted off to college (on a scholarship, mind you–working in a wire factory don’t allow for much in the way of savings).
“Not sure,” I answered, looking at the thing. She kept on knitting without looking up, one ear cocked toward the TV.
I looked at it, expecting to see some kind of cheap gewgaw that fell off some woman’s church hat or something. Instead I saw a jewel, red as blood, stuck in a gold setting, oval like a cameo brooch but with no pin. It looked old, too. I remember thinking maybe the snowplow dug it up after that last March storm and it’d been buried there for a while. The gold part around it was all filigreed like my grandma’s wedding ring. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I tossed it into my wife’s lap.
“Just a little thing I picked up in the ditch,” I told her. She stopped knitting long enough to look at it in the light of the reading lamp.
“Honey, this looks old,” she said. “Don’t you think we ought to try and find out who it belongs to? It might be an heirloom or something.”
“Nah,” I said, and it was the thing I most regret saying in my entire life. “Finders keepers, losers weepers. Make a necklace out of it. Wear it to church. Make all those old biddies jealous.” I winked at my wife, and she smiled back at me. It was well known that even after four kids and near thirty years of marriage, my wife was still as pretty as she was when I met her at the county fair the year we were both twenty. Maybe a little grey had crept into her dark hair, but her skin was smooth and white and she was as fit as a fiddle. She sure didn’t look her age like some of her church cronies.
She was smart as a whip too. Could of gone to college and what’s more, had sense, but she only wanted to get married and have babies, a job I stepped up to gladly. Her name was Alison but I always called her Sugar, ‘cause she was so sweet.
We went to bed that night and she put that thing in her jewelry box, and we forgot about it.
About a week later, I was out with my brush hog trying to keep the woods from taking over the hay field when the walkie-talkie beeped in my pocket. Twelve years ago, my uncle James had rolled a tractor on himself and lay there for hours before anyone thought to look for him. He damn near left us; ever since then, everybody in the family took a walkie-talkie with them out into the field, just in case. It was my youngest’s idea. He was a smart one like his mother.
At first I didn’t hear it, the tractor made so much noise, but when I slowed down a little to turn around, I heard it real faint. I stopped the tractor and keyed the Talk button, my heart in my mouth.
“Honey? Honey?” I could hear Sugar saying.
“Yeah!” I hollered back. “What is it?”
“Sweetheart, you better come on back to the house,” she crackled over the speaker. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
You can bet I hightailed it back to the house just as fast as I could. She hadn’t ever bothered me in the field without a damn good reason before. I was worried she might be sick or something. I know it sounds foolish after I just got done telling you how healthy she was and all, but I lived in constant fear of losing her to some calamity or other.
When I got there, she sat on the couch, the jewel on the coffee table in front of her, along with a big brown package. She stared at them like they were gonna bite her. I asked her what the sam hill was wrong, if she was all right, did she know she scared me half to death. She said she was all right and just to keep looking and pointed to the jewel there on the table.
I looked, but I didn’t see a thing. Now I was beginning to really get worried; I was thinking she was off her nut like my Aunt Trudy, who got the Alzheimer’s when she was only forty-five.
“What–“ I started to say, but just then that jewel flashed bright as the sun, filled the whole room with red light. I cried out, but Sugar just clapped her hands and laughed like a little kid.
“It did that before!” she said happily, “right when I wished! And look! It’s done it again!” I looked and there was a second package next to the first.
I did not get it. Even when she explained to me about how she’d been looking at the jewel, and thinking it was probably some old piece of costume jewelry that no one remembered losing, and how she wished it was valuable and we had the money what it would be worth, then it flashed as bright as anything and that package just appeared.
“Did you open it?” I asked. She shook her head and reached for one. I pushed her hand away. I sure didn’t know what the heck was happening, but I knew I didn’t want her to touch it. Not just yet.
I picked it up. It was kind of heavy for its size and felt like it was made out of thick leather, but soft. I unwrapped it and there in my hand lay more money than I had ever seen in my life. Stacks of hundred dollar bills, all bound up together with string. I dropped it on the table and grabbed the other package. Same thing; money, all wrapped up neat like some kind of a present.
“See? I told you! I wished for it and it appeared! Oh, Honey, this must be magic!” Sugar said, and she grabbed the jewel.
“Wait, now, let’s not jump to no conclusions,” I warned, but God, I was bewildered. I didn’t believe in any such thing as magic. There just had to be an explanation for this. “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but I’m thinking we better keep this between us,” I said hastily, seeing her eyes dart toward the telephone. If she called everyone we knew and told them I found a magic jewel that granted wishes, they’d have the county people out here so fast we’d be in a home before we knew it. So she pouted a little, but she agreed.
In the days that followed, we tried not to think about the jewel too much, but I knew it was on both our minds. The other guys at work kept looking at me funny, and one asked me if something was wrong. I made up a story about being tired, extra field work and all, and they didn’t bother me after that. We were afraid to put the thing back in the jewelry box, for fear someone’d break in and steal whatever was there, so I made a little nest in an old cigar box and buried it out behind the hay barn. Many times I found Sugar looking out the kitchen window in the direction of that barn, her face all dreamy, and I knew she was thinking of that little jewel and the power it seemed to have.
We put the money in the bank, a little at a time. What they might have thought had we just shown up with a big old pile of hundred dollar bills I can’t tell you, but they accepted a couple hundred a week with my explanation of picking up some extra work here and there tinkering with cars. Everyone knew I could keep a car running –learned it from my daddy. We sent some money to the kids, the ones that were married and out on their own and the one in college, but we were careful not to send too much.
Sugar used a little to fix up the house. We hadn’t had new carpet in a long time, on account of all the kids running in and out, and the old rug was just about on its last legs. I used some of it to put a down payment on a good used truck. In spite of my skills as a mechanic, the old one was just about finished. A few months later, the money was almost used up. Those leather bags were close to being empty when Sugar suggested we dig up the jewel and make another wish.
“Baby, I don’t know about that,” I told her. “This whole thing seems like a dream come true, but I got a funny feeling about it. Let’s not get too greedy.”
“But honey,” she pleaded. “Just think of all the things we could wish for! Anything we wanted! We could finally pay off the mortgage. We could have a brand new house if we wanted. Or even a trip to Mexico!” She’d always wanted to go to Mexico, ever since her grade school teacher brought in some stuff from her own trip. She loved Mexican food and always watched those travel shows on TV. I had hoped to take her someday, but until the Magic Jewel, as she now called it, I couldn’t save up the money.
“Sugar, I don’t think we ought to push this, whatever it is. Besides, you already wished twice–what if there’s only three wishes, and we wanna save the last one for something important?” I said.
“Oh, that’s just in fairy tales!” she scoffed. “This is real life, and besides, there isn’t any reason to think that we can’t make as many wishes as we want to. After all, it came to us,” she said quietly.
I looked at her then and I didn’t like what I saw. Her eyes were all narrow, and she looked like she did when the stray cat got into the henhouse among her prized Arucanas. “I’m gonna get that cat,” she’d said and soon enough, the chickens were safe. Sugar wasn’t half bad with a .22 as well as a sewing machine. I was proud of her that day, but now that look worried me.
“Sugar, promise me you won’t do anything ‘til we get a chance to think things through,” I said. She didn’t want to listen to me, but eventually I coaxed her into a promise. I didn’t believe her though. I fully intended to dig up the cigar box that very night and move it before she could get out there again. It hurt me to mistrust my wife. We’d been together for many years and she was my best friend, but this situation was getting out of hand. All her native sense seemed to have deserted her. I could tell now that she thought of nothing else besides that jewel. I watched her the rest of the day, but she didn’t say any more about it.
My worry kept me up ‘til well after she had conked out. I got out of bed and changed into some jeans and a dark colored T-shirt in the laundry room and went outside to fetch a shovel. It was cloudy and dark that night. I thought maybe it might be fixing to rain. I just wanted to move the thing and go back to bed. When I got to the hay barn, though, I found a great big hole where the cigar box had been.
My first thought was that Sugar had been pulling my chain that afternoon — she’d already dug up the jewel and hid it, and boy was I mad. I stopped to think what she could have done with it. That’s when I looked up and noticed the light by the old oak, or rather, where the old oak used to be. I lit out for the fence line like a jack rabbit on a spring. If Sugar is doing what I think she’s doing, I’m gonna turn her over my knee for the first time ever.
When I got a little closer, I stopped. Something about that light didn’t look quite right. It didn’t look like a flashlight or a lantern. It glowed sort of a gold color, and little blue sparks were flying around it. A great big shrub some ways away gave enough cover for me to take a look. I crept up behind the shrub and crouched down.
What I saw was more of those little sparks, and three figures standing by the fence line, not digging or even moving. Just dark shapes. For some reason, I felt scared, and I crouched down even further, hoping they hadn’t seen me come dashing across the pasture. The shapes started waving their arms like they were doing some kind of dance, and the little sparks flashed brighter and whooshed around the heads of the figures. I shifted position to get a better look and froze as a stick snapped under my foot.
Right away the lights went out. Nothing but flat dark. I cussed myself for being scared and stood up and went toward the fence. I still didn’t see a thing, but my teeth were chattering and I had to clench my jaw to make them stop.
I got up to the fence and used the light on my keychain to look where the shapes had been standing. I found a little place where the ground had been dug up, and I thought Aha, I got her. I squatted down and cussed again. I’d left the shovel back at the barn. So I started to dig with my hands. The ground seemed sort of warm. I kept digging but didn’t find no cigar box.
No, what I found instead was an acorn. Planted near the same place where we ground down that old oak stump after the tree came down. It puzzled me; who would be out in the middle of the damn night, planting an acorn out by the fence? It couldn’t be Sugar, she wouldn’t do something like that, not when the jewel was there waiting to be wished on. I picked up the acorn, and as I did, the light came back, and all of a sudden the shapes were standing over me.
I dropped the acorn and fell over backwards. There I was, sitting on my butt by the fence, looking up at the most amazing people. There were two men and a woman, dressed in some kind of green flowing hippie outfits, with long hair and shining with this gold light that came right off them. They were beautiful; I’d never seen anything like them, but they scared me. The little blue sparks were back too, and they swarmed around the people like bees but didn’t make no sound. I’m dead for sure, I thought and I tried to say something, but nothing would come out.
“Please do not disturb the acorn,” the woman said in the prettiest voice I’d ever heard. It sounded like a brook in the forest and for just a second, I forgot all about Sugar and near thirty years of marriage; I wanted to run off with her and make babies till the sun came up. “It was put there to replace the old tree, and it must remain.”
“What-what the hell you planting trees on my property for?” I managed to say, and one of the men laughed.
“It is only yours by default,” he said, in a voice not as sexy but at least as rippling as the woman’s. “We have been here longer than you, longer than anyone. The tree was ours, and lately it was cut down.”
“That tree died,” I said, getting up and brushing off the seat of my pants. “We cut it down before it fell down, my daddy and me.” The man started to say something, but the woman cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“You did what you are here to do, to steward the land,” she said in that fabulous voice. “The tree was dying…its time had come. As the time for the new tree will come, and your time, and your kin’s, on and on, until the end of the world.” I looked at her, and she had such a kind face, I felt better already.
“Uh, I think maybe I found something that belongs to you,” I said, hesitating. “There was this jewel thing-–“
“We know,” the other man said. “We found your hiding place.”
“We were looking for it,” said the woman. “It dwelled in the heart of the tree. It is a Wishing Stone. Your lady used it.” She frowned a little bit and I got scared again.
“She didn’t mean no harm,” I said frantically, “she didn’t know that. It was an accident! But she got greedy, and I hid it so we wouldn’t use it too much. We weren’t gonna wish for anything bad, really!”
“It does not matter,” said the woman. “We must have it back. It belongs to us. As for your lady, it is our custom to punish those who trifle with our possessions.”
“No!” I cried. “Don’t you hurt her!”
“We have no wish to hurt your lady,” said the first man. “But there must be some price paid for the theft of our jewel. Does anything occur to you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to give them anything. How I was gonna explain this to Sugar I didn’t know. We had to give it back.
“I dunno,” I said slowly. “I guess you could have some of my cattle.” I waved my hand toward the cows standing at the other end of the pasture, chewing away like nothing was happening.
The people laughed.
“We have no use for cattle,” the woman said. “Where we live the beasts of field and forest are plentiful. We do not eat them as your barbarous people do. No, it must be something of equal value.”
When she said that, all of them got darker. I mean their faces got darker, like the gold light turned bad. It scared me so much, I damn near wet my britches and I backed away from them. They took a step toward me and I turned and ran like the wind, back up to the house.
When I got there the house was dark and everything was just like I left it. I ran inside, ignoring the stitch in my side and the cow crap on my boots and took the stairs two at a time up to the bedroom. I meant to wake Sugar up and show her, ask her what to do, tell her we’d have to give the money back somehow. When I got into the bedroom, I saw her sound asleep in the bed, and she looked so peaceful I just couldn’t do it.
It all began to seem sort of crazy then, and I thought maybe I had walked in my sleep. I went back down to the laundry room and took off my dirty clothes and washed up at the sink and put my pjs back on. Then I went upstairs to bed and fell asleep in a minute.
The next morning, I got up and went to work as though nothing happened. Sugar didn’t mention the jewel and I didn’t either. I thought about the hole by the barn all day, and I figured if she went out there, she’d think that I had dug it up myself. I meant to explain it to her when I got home.
After work, I went out to the barn and looked for the hole. It wasn’t there. The ground was filled in and grass grew over the spot like there had never been a hole. I couldn’t understand it, then I remembered the people the night before. Sugar was back to her old self again; she almost seemed happy. We ate dinner together like always. I could hardly swallow for thinking about the damn jewel. After we’d ate, and went into the living room and sat there a while, I reached for the clicker and turned off the TV.
“Jed! I was watching that!” she said.
“Listen, baby.” I told her about the night before, how I’d gone outside to dig up the jewel, the disappearing hole, the shiny folk, all of it. She listened without saying anything. By the time I’d finished, that look stole back on her face, the one that had worried me.
“I think you just had a nightmare, dear,” she said. “Perhaps you need to take a couple of days off work and get some rest. You look a little peaked.”
“Dammit, Alison, I’m not kidding!” I grabbed her arm and dragged her protesting out of the house. She screamed at me, saying she was in her slippers, to stop and let her put on some shoes, but I kept pulling her toward the pasture. We struggled across it toward the fence and stopped where I’d been the night before. I looked for the disturbed ground where they put the acorn, but I couldn’t find it.
“It was right here,” I muttered. Sugar folded her arms and glared at me.
“Have you lost your mind? Do you expect me to believe that you came out here in the middle of the night and saw fairies? And what’s all this nonsense about a jewel?” I stared at her, my mouth hanging open like a barn door.
“What do you mean what jewel?” I yelled. “The damn red jewel I gave you, the one that you wished on, the one all the money came from!”
She looked at me, and I knew then what “equal value” meant. I had lost her. This was my punishment. She thought I had gone crazy, and she was edging away from me like I had the plague or something. The look she had on her face, the henhouse look, determined and tough, her look for when she had to do something that wasn’t pleasant but had to be done, that look I’d seen more and more over the last month or so, the look that made me bury the jewel.
She turned away from me and walked back toward the house, her slippers flapping in the grass. I stood there, watching her, unable to move. When she was out of sight, I started digging frantically along the fence, looking for the damn acorn and the damn jewel, knowing I wouldn’t find it. I started screaming then, I guess, and by the time the sheriff got there my hands were bleeding and my throat was raw but I still didn’t find a damn thing.
That was a year and a half ago, I guess, reckon time flies when you’re having fun. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what I saw in the field that night, or the way Sugar looked at me. It came on me that she’d looked at me a lot like that, I just didn’t know for how long. I thought of my Aunt Trudy and how she just kept getting worse and worse, and I guess I know what I might be in for.
The kids come and see me sometimes and the youngest told me there’s a new tree sprouted by the fence line. I yelled at him to leave it the hell alone. I think I scared him because he hasn’t come much lately. Sugar visits a couple times a week. She had a new boughten dress on last time, and new shoes.
I wonder just where she got the money.
I hope everybody had a safe, sane, and happy Thanksgiving weekend. If you don’t celebrate the Day of the Turkey, I hope you had a good weekend regardless.
Welp, it’s the last day of NaNoWriMo and I have not finished Secret Book. I have written 15,250 words this month, which is more than I wrote on the thing in quite a while, so I don’t consider it a failure at all. My total words come out to 94,997.
According to my NaNoWriMo stats, at the rate I went this month, I will finish on February 7, 2016. Maybe. Maybe sooner, if I push myself through December. I’m starting to see the links in this story (actually, it’s two stories that converge, then break apart again), and that perks me up a little. It’s like building something; at first, it’s just a jumble of parts, but when you get to a certain point, you start to see the finished product emerging.
Photo: Elizabeth West
I don’t think I’ll do NaNoWriMo to finish something this complicated again. Tunerville had the distinct advantage of being somewhat simplistic; it’s just a straightforward urban fantasy and I could fly by the seat of my pants throughout.
So now there is a month left to go before New Year’s Day. I shall lurk a bit and see if I can finish the draft by then. I’ll keep posting the increased word count (I made a cool spreadsheet) so watch the counter on my homepage. You’ll know when I’m done. Hell, they’ll probably hear me scream all the way in London. I still have a couple of vocabulary posts to go, so expect those upcoming.
Thank you for sticking with me through the lamest NaNoWriMo of all time. I PROMISE I WILL FINISH.
Now I shall leave you lovely people and go watch The Walking Dead. Here is a video of a dog who feels my pain at having to get up to go to work after a long weekend.
Word count Day 23: Zippo (on the page)
Word Count Day 24: 2152
I finished a very pivotal scene. And I thought of several ways I can tie Protagonist 1’s experiences in so that they foreshadow later events, without actually giving anything away.
As a writer, I live for realizations like that. They’re what keep me going through a first draft. I think some of the difficulty I’ve been having with Secret Book is that it felt disjointed for so long. I couldn’t see how the pieces fit together; writing it in a linear fashion would not have helped. Reading the outline didn’t either.
Now I can see them, as I take them out of the puzzle box of my mind and assemble them on the page. As scenes go from a summary paragraph to fleshed-out realities, some of the things Protag 1 and 2 do and say are surprising me, but they make more sense now.
Nothing is set in stone at this point. Everything could change in rewrite. I so look forward to that adventure.
It’s two days until Thanksgiving in the U.S. Tonight’s video is from Blue Mountain Cards and gives us an amusing musical look at the standoff between a farmer and his holiday dinner. Enjoy!
Word count: 289 lame, stupid, words that were like pulling impacted wisdom teeth
This manuscript draft is like doing homework I don’t want to do. I want to work on the Rose’s Hostage sequel and Tunerville queries, but I HAVE to finish it. I may be writing on it all the way through Christmas.
Speaking of which, see how to shut down your crazy right-wing relatives at the upcoming holiday, courtesy of SNL!
Today’s word count: 768
It snowed this morning. Ugh. It vanished after a while, but the weather has turned cold and the ceaseless wind that will plague us until July has begun to blow. This sort of weather makes me wish more than ever that I had someone to keep me warm under this stupid blanket.
No words last night; this is what I did instead of writing:
Photo: Elizabeth West
I made Welsh cakes for a Doctor Who fan club meetup potluck. They turned out okay, if a bit heavy; not bad for a first try. I had to play around with my new griddle to figure out the proper temperature. It basically took all evening, but it was worth it *nom nom nommm*
I also realized two things.
- That November is a shitty time to do NaNoWriMo. There is too much going on–Thanksgiving, Christmas (ice show) prep, the change in weather, and a constant, ongoing parade of potlucks. November has so many interruptions that it’s like–well, life. October would be better. When you’re already struggling to finish a project this way, any help you can get is welcome.
- That, while I dislike summer, I really, really hate winter. Goodbye, autumn. *sigh*
In tonight’s video from SciShow, we learn why earworms happen and what you can do about them!
Word count: 1,873
Holy marathon, Batman, I finished the most annoying scene ever. It sucks like a giant Dyson from space, but that’s okay. I just repeat my mantra for pushing through a first draft: I can fix it later.
Plus, I broke the 90,000-word mark. Yay me! \0/
This book will need to go through several rewrites and about a zillion edits before I’m anywhere close to ready for any beta readers. In fact, I think I’ll probably have to start on the Rose’s Hostage sequel next, or that poor thing will never get done.
Our bizarre 1960s video for tonight–a cinema snack bar advertisement. Anyone besides me think that peanut at the beginning looks a little…..protruding?
Word count: 1,831.
Much better, yes? As tired as I am today (I have no idea why, but I’m going to bed soon, I promise), I found it easier to write this evening. That feeling has been rather AWOL of late. Along with it comes relief. During those dry spells and blockages, you sometimes think it’s not going to come back.
In tonight’s video, we learn what happens to you when you don’t sleep. Good night, everybody.