I woke up with this silly 80’s song in my head and I can’t shake it. I might, maybe, have even watched the video on YouTube a couple of times. ::cough::
Mostly my head is full of book, which tends to push blogging over in a forgotten corner, saved for when I have “time”.
This week has by and large been the Delia and Dora show. Dora has been feeding me the best lines, as she does, and Delia continues to grow and come into her own.
Two quick, totally out of context, subject to revision darlings. Because I can and because I haven’t posted one in a while.
She shrugged out of her full-length beaver coat and passed it to me. “Forgive me for not being here sooner, Dee. I thought I’d given Randy sufficient instruction on when to wake me and under what circumstance. And yet he persists in believing that getting me out of bed before ten is dangerous. I haven’t the faintest notion where that idea came from.”
I hung her coat on the hall tree, all the while struggling to keep a straight face. “Perhaps the time you threw a bedside lamp at him left an impression.”
Dora waved a hand dismissively, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Randy overreacts to my moods. All that aside, he still should have told me you’d called right away, not waited to ring me from the station. I was already dressed and leaving to meet an acquaintance of Sadie’s downtown for lunch. Melba something or other.”
She gave me an exasperated sidelong glance, but her smile never faltered. “If I knew exactly what was wrong, I’d tell you. All I’m sure of is that we’re being watched and have been since shortly after we left your house. What bothers me most is I can’t tell what is watching us. I should at least be able to tell if we’re drawing attention from the living or the dead, but I can’t. Each time I attempt to determine where the attention comes from, things become fuzzy. That I can’t be certain one way or the other makes me doubly cautious.”
“Let me try. Maybe I can at least sort out whether we’re being spied on by the living or the dead. We both know spirits hide from you.” I tugged Dora toward a dressmaker’s window, pointing out embroidered cotton-lawn collars. She chatted on about workmanship and stitch patterns. That freed me to look inward and cast about for anything out of the ordinary.
I found the watcher in an instant and immediately regretted that I had. The weight of ages come and gone filled its eyes and pinned me where I stood, a presence cloaked in shadows and the dry smell of death. That the sun shone and people were all around didn’t lessen my fear. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, until the watcher released me and slithered away. ****
Process evolves for me, each novel demanding something different. This one? Oh man…so different.
This week I was chipping away at the rock of ideas this story fed me, sculpting them until they weren’t just right, but until they worked. I know it instantly when they do. It’s an almost physical sensation of things clicking into place.
I love that. It’s a great writer’s high.
And this novel, unlike all my others, has scenes jumping up and waving at me all the time, each one yelling “Pick me! Pick me!” Mind you, these scenes are all part of the plot, but they are out of order and skip things between.
As of now I have four scenes partly written, something that’s never happened before. I’m normally a very linear writer. Going back and adding the connecting bits will be different.
I’m grateful there is so much book and story in my head. When I do get to sit down and write I’m not struggling. I just pick up and go on.
Gotta run now. Don’t break stuff while I’m gone.
199 days until Delia’s Shadow.