Misting the Morning Away

It’s 1 November, and in the world I’ve built it’s an important day for my fictional kids:  this is the Day of the Dead, specifically Día de los Inocentes, the Day of the Innocents, which is where you’re supposed to remember the children and infants who have died.  It was the day that several students died, and a few more were prevented from dying due to quick and accidental thinking thinking by Kerry.

It’s also the first day of NaNoWriMo, and a whole lot of people stayed up until midnight to do a little spiriting and get in a few hundred words before going to bed.  It was their opening salvo to squeeze out fifty thousand words of fun and excitement, and get it down on a page somewhere.

As for me?  I didn’t make it until midnight.  I did write out a little over five hundred words last night, but I’m not feeling the NaNo Love this year.  I’ll do my best, but I’m not worried if I don’t make my fifty thousand words this year.

Might have something to do with after having completed my NaNo 2013 novel, I've written five more in the last year.

Might have something to do with after having completed my NaNo 2013 novel, I’ve written five more in the last year.

Really then, if I don’t make my fifty thou this month, I’m comforted that I’m still at this monster, and I will see this through for another–what?  One hundred and fifty?  Welcome to my Infinite Jest.  Georgie Martin and his death dealing got nothing on me, save he’s getting paid to take his time writing.

It’s Kerry time, and he’s in California, not far from where he was born and spent the first eight years of his life.  Since he’s north of San Francisco you can imagine what the weather is like . . .

 

All excerpts, this page, from The Foundation Chronicles, Book One: A For Advanced, copyright 2013, 2014, by Cassidy Frazee)

Kerry stared out the window of the guest room at the mist covering his grandparents back yard. It was just like the mornings he remember when he was a child. Kerry loved the mist; it was the one thing he missed about living in this part of San Francisco, and what he enjoyed on some morning at Salem. Annie had mentioned that she had morning mist where she lived as well: Kerry wondered if he would see that one day.

He’s been since about five-thirty; it was habit that he thought he’d put behind him after the weekend, but here it was, Monday morning, and he was up as early as if he were preparing for class. I thought Annie might get up early the first day, and I would do the same, but a couple of days later?

Thinking about Annie, even just a little, made Kerry wonder what she was doing. Calculating the time in Bulgaria was easy: she was always ten hours ahead of him. Eight here is eighteen there. She’s probably getting ready for dinner. Whereas I’m gonna have breakfast . . .

He left the room and headed for the kitchen.

 

Such is Morning in Marrionwood, as I titled the scene.  He’s off in a guest room, Mom and Dad are in another room, grandparents in another . . . and what about those grandparents?  We finally get to meet them:

 

His grandfather and grandmother were up: his grandfather Aaron was standing by the coffee maker and his grandmother Margaret was sitting at the little table by the window. His grandfather reminded him a bit of his mother: like her, he was tall, thin, and pale, and even at the age of seventy-three, he still had most of his bright ginger hair. Both looked up as he entered the kitchen, and his grandfather greeting him. “Morning, Kerry. You finally slept in.”

He didn’t want to say anything about getting up early and spending time on his computer. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container of mango juice, which had been bought special for him yesterday. “Yeah.” He gave his grandfather a pleasant grin. “It felt good.”

Aaron turned and topped off his coffee. “Nice to see you’ve gotten over your jet lag so quickly.”

Kerry had popped out of bed Saturday morning his normal time and was questioned an hour later if he’d been up a while due to the time change. He almost blew it by saying “No” and caught himself before he could possibly get caught in a lie. “It’s only a three hour different, and I have a lot of energy.” He turned away as he smile at his own wit. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“They’re out walking the neighborhood.” Aaron held up the pot of coffee while looking at his wife.

She nodded and held up her cup, and finished her husband’s statement. “They’d had the damnedest time getting on local time.

Kerry remembered how difficult it had been for his parents to get on Cardiff time after leaving Sleepy Hollow. And they’re older now, so it’s even harder. “I’m sure they’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

 

Yeah, they’ll be fine, Kerry–unlike you who had the help of a magical mixture that knocked you out for a few hours and readjusted your biological systems so your body thought it was on Pacific Standard Time.  Just like when you flew from Amsterdam to Boston.  Bet Mom and Dad would love to get their hands on that stuff before they leave for London.

Doesn’t look like much is happening, but in the next five hundred or so words is gonna get set up and discover something that will affect Kerry in a big way–

Probably when he begins dealing with stuff . . . you know, things?

Probably when he begins dealing with stuff . . . you know, things?

The order of business today is to finish up this scene–which shouldn’t take too much–and then jump back to Bulgaria and deal with Annie and her Mama.

Oh, yeah:  That’s gonna be fun.

Paloma Dreamtime

It seems the yesterday’s post touched more than a few people in ways I hadn’t suspected.  About a year ago I had someone start following the blog, only to send me the following comment two days later:  “This isn’t just about writing, is it?”  He stopped following me the next day because, yes, I don’t always talk about writing, and this upset him greatly.  Probably had something to do with him being a nutso control freak, which manifested in a couple of online writer groups I was in, but that’s another story.

While I write about writing, I also write about how I feel about writing, and how it makes me feel.  It’s not always good, and it’s not always pleasant  but it’s usually honest.  As a writer we have to be honest with ourselves, at least that’s what I think.  You can spend all your time writing stories that involve having sex with your step-kids, but at some point you have to be honest and say, “This is really sort of crappy.”  If you aren’t saying that, well . . . you’re not me.  Which probably isn’t that bad a thing, come to think of it.

I try to pay attention on everything these days.  As Johnny Cash said, “You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don’t try to forget the mistakes, but you don’t dwell on it. You don’t let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.”  That’s me these days:  I look ahead, but remember what has already come before.  Because I do know what it’s like to be pinned down by your past, and how it can gnaw at you until you can’t move forward any longer.  It sucks hard, and I don’t need that negative energy in my life these days.

So what is this about Paloma, you say?  A dream, I say.  After editing two chapters last night–editing and formatting, I should say–it was off to bed, because it’s not like anything else is happening in my life.  It was raining lightly last night, and I love to hear soft rains, so I was off to sleep pretty fast . . .

That’s when the strange stuff happened.

Whatever I was dreaming, I was in world burning mode last night.  It seemed as if things were really crappy, that things weren’t nearly as good as they are today, and yet, it wasn’t entirely a crapsack world.  Tre Funky, yes.  But I still had a car and internet, so it wasn’t a total hole.

For some reason I was trying to move a bunch of kids from my part of the country to a new job in . . . Paloma, California.  For some reason I thought this was a great idea, because I’d have a fantastic job and I’d be able to take care of everyone, and so forth and on.  It stuck with me so much that after I got onto the computer this morning I did a quick map look for Paloma, California . . .

And was duly unimpressed.

It’s a small collection of buildings in the middle of nowhere east of Stockton.  There’s a church, some roads going elsewhere, and that’s it.  A couple of nice houses, but no business that would make me willing to pack up a bunch of kids and haul them a few thousand miles.

Why did this happen?  Maybe there’s a story there.  Maybe not.

I’ll keep my eyes open, though–just in case.