I stood in the backyard, with snow covering my boots up to the tops of my toes and I stared at the full moon, thinking. The moon, of course, held no answers, but has always been a good listener with pale features. It holds its secrets too, which I sometimes imagine I glean.
Twice I stood out there that late Saturday evening. And while I won't say exactly what I was doing out there (one deserves discretion), I will admit to pondering whether to reply to a missive from someone I hadn't expected to hear from but also, at the same time, thought I might.
It had been a while, so I gave the missive some thought, as well as the sender. My due thought was awash in lunar glow, plain as daylight and allowing flights of fancy and imagination, as usual (for me, anyway).
By the time of my second outing under the whitewashed moonglow, the backyard a brilliant shimmering sea around me, I made up my mind what to do. I would reply, which held certain risks, certain rewards (often confused). Now if only the bright disc, which had seen me through so much, could help me pick the right words. But it gave me the intent, and you cannot ask for more than that from the moon.
Thursday, February 13, 2020
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Hope, anew
I found hope again, for the third draft of my new horror novel. Clear and bright and as true as the longer February days.
Recently, I had my birthday and one of the few advantages of a February birthday is that I am reminded I am well-loved (and well-lusted after, arguably), nothing else is really happening this time of year and the days are getting longer by about 30 seconds each day.
I found hope, hope to get through the winter, and a good, solid plan to finish the third draft of Monstrous and, crucially, the support needed to do so.
I'm looking at about five days' full work, between adding a couple of new scene, rewriting and sanding down other scenes, and mixing in the right elements throughout, along with a few significant changes in the earlier scenes.
And then everyone dies! Wait - that's Shakespearian tragedy, not my novel. (Or arguably Stephen King's The Stand).
What is going to happen for Sergeant Ritchie O'Donnell, my gay cop from Town & Train?
What is the fate of Dave and Josh, my two university students, who are fleeing monsters?
Why is my drifter protagonist back from a cross-country trip, travelling off-the grid?
What makes some a sociopath? How does a protagonist become an antagonist?
Recently, I had my birthday and one of the few advantages of a February birthday is that I am reminded I am well-loved (and well-lusted after, arguably), nothing else is really happening this time of year and the days are getting longer by about 30 seconds each day.
I found hope, hope to get through the winter, and a good, solid plan to finish the third draft of Monstrous and, crucially, the support needed to do so.
I'm looking at about five days' full work, between adding a couple of new scene, rewriting and sanding down other scenes, and mixing in the right elements throughout, along with a few significant changes in the earlier scenes.
And then everyone dies! Wait - that's Shakespearian tragedy, not my novel. (Or arguably Stephen King's The Stand).
What is going to happen for Sergeant Ritchie O'Donnell, my gay cop from Town & Train?
What is the fate of Dave and Josh, my two university students, who are fleeing monsters?
Why is my drifter protagonist back from a cross-country trip, travelling off-the grid?
What makes some a sociopath? How does a protagonist become an antagonist?
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