From my reams of F&C novel notes:
“Consider: The universe is a mathematical construct that is ultimately definable, vs. It’s possible for something to be greater than the sum of its parts. Also: The ideas of a micro-universe without mass, and non-deity-based spontaneous creation.”
I’m starting to think it might be genetically impossible for me to come up with a simple story idea.
On the more mundane domestic front, I have to say that having the plumbers over five times in one month is a bit much. On the up side, our shower is no longer limited to scalding us with a thin trickle of blazing hot water. Hooray for the return to refreshing cold showers on a wiltingly hot day.
The dark has come, riding the chill, rain-spattered winds of November, leaving wet leaves clinging to the soles of our shoes, and spawning intense cravings for hot chocolate and home-made soup. What better time to huddle in front of the warm glow of the monitor and let the flow of words take you into another world. A sunnier one, perhaps, somewhere far south of here. Or, in my case, somewhere even darker, and much, much scarier. I’ve given myself a couple of November challenges, one of which is to write every day (or close thereto). This evening I braved the damp and the (okay actually relatively mild) breezes (which nonetheless kept trying to turn my umbrella inside out) to write at my favourite cafe. Here are a few random sentences from the last few days of editing that fit oddly well together, despite being from two different chapters:
The trees were moving. A deep, undulating ripple, travelling toward them at a speed normally reserved for supersonic aircraft.
At least two things were certain. The storm had come, there was no doubt about that. And Bryn was going to be more than a mite displeased when he informed her that he intended to keep his word.
“Do excuse the rude people,” the Professor crooned to the fish, holding it close enough that his beard whiskers brushed against its scales. “They are but cogs and pawns and the whistling wind, and know not what they do.” He kissed the fish’s snout – drawing a hiss of disgust from Jil and an exclamation of “Dude! That is just nasty!” from Troy – and purred, “There my lovely, wake and sing for us, there’s a good girl.”
Caitlin’s sight was temporarily obscured as both Feid and Troy threw themselves in front of her, arms held wide, feet planted as firmly as they could manage, given that the wooden planks were still vibrating, as if announcing an oncoming train. In the heat of the moment, Caitlin couldn’t decide whether to be amused, or profoundly annoyed.
“What if it comes from behind us?” she yelled, as another thunder-roll shook the walls.
What remained of the ceiling lay in pieces around them, slabs of drywall jutting at odd angles amidst clouds of settling white dust and broken roof timbers. The Professor sat in the middle of a pile of rubble with a stunned look on his face, still holding one delicate, intact teacup. It steamed faintly.
Before she could fly down the steps, a vice closed on her arm, tight as a blood pressure cuff, but hot, and hard, and sharp, like metal pulled from the fire while it was still dreaming of becoming a knife.
“Oh, shut up, it’ll heal. In approximately…” Jil held up her own arm, which was completely devoid of a watch, “…now.”
“If we’re not really standing on a mountain in the snow, why are my feet cold?”
“You should know, you’re the psychology expert.”
“I’m only third year. We haven’t covered trans-dimensional astral travel yet.”
“Hunter,” the Professor said, pointing to Jil, “…gatherer.” Pointing to each of them in turn. “She collects people. For a fee. Someone wants you. Oh, yes.” He grinned suddenly, a surprisingly bright, white, even smile. Odd – Caitlin would not have thought a badger would have such perfect teeth.