Where in the world is Cassidy Frazee? Why, I’m here:
I’m also here:
I’m in the first westbound rest stop in Ohio after driving for four hours through the darkness of Pennsylvania. It’s now 5:50 AM, and the above pictures were taken twenty minutes ago, and believe me when I say I’ve still got this joint to myself.
I think I’ll name it Trevor.
I’m on my way home for a week, and after three hours of sleep–and some damn strange dreams–I decided to Blow The Burg an hour early and set out on my trek west. The last time I did this–which, if you remember, happened during NaNoWriMo–I hit the Turnpike running, blasting music all the while with hardly another car in sight. This time, not so lucky. There was a lot of traffic on the highway until I reached Somerset, then it sort of faded so by the time I reached Pittsburgh there was next to nothing on the highway. As Pittsburgh is the Zombie Capitol of the U.S.–Georgia can suck it, ’cause they gotta use tax breaks to get their Shambling Geeks–I can completely understand why no one was on the highway.
If I wasn’t blasting music, what was I doing? I was alone with my thoughts. Okay, with my characters, which is sort of the same thing. They don’t say much unless I let them, and they certainly aren’t asking me if we’re there yet. Their world and mine don’t intersect save for when I have Scrivener up and running–
Two scenes edited last night, because hell yeah, I’m going to do this while I can. But with a long stretch of Keystone State behind me, and Buckeyes and Hoosiers ahead, I’m thinking up scenes not for this book, but for others. I’m thinking up life experiences. I’m dreaming up tales to tell, because that’s what you do when you have characters developed and you want them to do things. You know, stuff . . .
Somewhere along the road I figured out the moment when Kerry’s friend and wingmate Emma finally realizes she’s in the Permanent Friendzone, and not even the death of a certain Dark Witch will change that condition. I’ve put together a scene where someone tells an exhausted Annie of their time on the Polar Express, trying to gloss over how brutal it was for her because someone’s not sleeping because their soul mate is out there in the cold. Right before I pulled into this joint I started piecing together what goes on in the Black Vault of The Witch House, and when you put a Kirilova and a Lovecraft together down there alone, what really happens? It’s not that: get your minds out of the gutter, people.
It’s good, quiet, dark times out there on the road back home. The sun won’t come up for another thirty, forty minutes, maybe more since I’m racing it westward. It’ll catch me soon enough, probably about the time I blow through Youngstown.
Coffee’s finished, I’ve got another seven hours on the road, and I’ve gotta get my mind into the Black Vault.