writing a story. It is called And The Woods Are Silent, and it’s about (thanks to Elizabeth Bear) a wolf girl with lovebird wings who is searching for her father. More or less. I am in the Middle Mess, so I decided to write the end and see what happens.
This, is part of it:
Saki is arms up, elbows on the table, fingertips red. Blood. Torn meat in a pile, between her teeth, wet on her mouth. She chews. Drags a thumbnail over the skin of the other hand until the flesh gives way, until it opens, a second place for her tongue. Had she other bones, she would lick those clean.
Paisly watches. He is quiet.
He told Arel. He told her everything.
I think, so far, I am happy with this thing.
I will poke today, for tomorrow is out and then on the weekend we go to the mountains. Huzzah!
This, in the middle of the dark, surrounded by lost children, and turned-about adults and 2 security guards straight out of a video game. Nightvale and warm hot chocolate, and later, cake.
This is what good birthdays are made of.
- Sleepy Hollow, Agents of SHIELD, Hostages (seriously! Every awesome actor!), The Blacklist. 4 for 4 here in AmberTVland, although if we had in TVD and TVD: Originals and the upcoming JRM Dracula, poor Sleepy Hollow may not make it. Oh! Also: Once Upon a Time, Wonderland. But, omg for the specyfic fiction business. Even if it’s all Wampyre nonsense, I SIGN UP.
- Podcasting: I had this idea, about three weeks ago to do a 15-20 minute podcast called “The Sentence” in which writers & authors come on, read their favourite sentence and then *explain* why it’s so bloody fantastic. I suspect (I know) that this was all a subconscious ruse on my part. Mostly I just want to talk about Cormac McCarthy’s The Road in every available medium. Fortunately, I have techSupport, and I know writers and this is something I’ve been investigating
- also, this: http://carolinenorrington.com/writing-to
ols/outlining-and-prep/scrivener/. Caroline, a writer of my acquaintance has built this amazeballs Scrivener (You know I love me the Scrivener, although I wonder, sometimes, if I wrote better on msWord, if only because it’s so streamlined. But, I love all of the Stuff! of Scrivener and can’t really blame it for my ongoing lameness) novel template, and you should investigate.
My Dearest William,
I am lost, have a loss for words. I seek simplicity, but it is not without ache, some moment of want that is not as wonder for there is nothing magical about it, nothing grand. Nothing to cause me to stand, mouth open, agape. Isn’t that love, too? There is no wonder.
Words. To be so simple. To be as this:
I wonder where the rest went, was the cloud not winter-white, was it not the same shade as popular fluff, as round-edged, did it not hide the birds, did it not release a raindrop. What did the cloud do, or was it just that:
I wonder where the words went, the ones that were cut, limb from limb, sent away, brushed into the bin. Were they awful, were they unforgiving? What was wrong with them that they became unwanted.
I want to hold them all, dear William. To cradle them, to show them love to place them just so on such white paper. The white of clouds against a blue sky.
But what of the sky.
But what is
I go through these long periods where there aren’t words. I am occupied, distracted by other things. I am tired, and I am awake and summer comes and it’s a season I don’t understand, and there is fall and it feels familiar.
Vafi lifts his head, a rag in his hand to wipe the grime away, and a word heavy on his tongue. Like hello; held safe for the girl who always stands with her hands to the tenement glass, staring out into the night.
The girl whose lips move as if she might be speaking but the weather is always there, between them, and he can never hear just what it is she has to say.
I have gone through the beginning a dozen times and each time it feels right, or it feels wrong. I go into bookstores and my heart grows three sizes. I am Cindy Lou, it is my WhoVille. Or it is WhoVille, and I see it on a postcard. Turn it over and run a thumb over the address.
Vafi lifts his head, a rag in his hand to wipe the grime away, and a word heavy on his tongue. Like hello; held safe for the girl who always stands with her hands to the tenement glass, staring out into the night. The girl whose lips move as if she might be speaking but the weather is always there, between them, and he can never hear just what it is she has to say.
Sometimes the words are wrong and the right ones just don’t show themselves. We beat our hands against wooden doors who have no handles and wonder:
who is it I do this for?
I lose track of the answer to that question. I feel whole and halved. I am tired and long for soft, warm blankets.
I know the words are wrong. I can’t seem to fix them.
ZomFeels! It’s what all the kids are after. Enjoyed, anyway. There was also My Amytiville, about the son of the Amytiville Horror family. There is no way you can live in a haunted (even if it wasn’t) house and not come out a wee bit crazy. Now, Savages – Oliver Stone, drugs, it’s all in there, but also nice to see a non-trad relationship structure (poly triad) that isn’t a Huge Deal. I could do without Blake Lively’s monologue at the beginning about how many it’s “Wrong”, but her justification of the situation redeemed. More or less.
But, so it has been the Time of Movies.
I think about love, and what it is to know, which is not the same as feeling.
Dear William, does it ever change? Is it always the garden of eden or is it something worse. Do the arms open only to turn to claws, to knives. Is this is what it is to love? To bleed. To feel rivers, to know scars. To know open, that raw disgust of self and place that is as vast as sky or stars.
We make wishes. We wish upon falling stars and pretend they are not already fading. Falling. To Fall is to die. Ask what happened:
I was not there to catch him. Oh, William, you look at me, drunk and stumbling - it's so often how you are and yet, I hold you all the same. Propped up, careful. Glasses rest on uneven tables and you, my sweet love.
You break my heart every time I look into your eyes.
when time is short. Or so my cousin once said, on a day-ending in a day that was the end of a visit that has never been repeated. So many years ago, now, when another person was another person and she is barely recognized, even when the mirror reflects.
Keep your wings dry
he said to the Bee. She thought on that for a while and decided it was a bit like staying gold, not in the way of innocence but in the way of weight, of burden. Bees should not fly, and yet they do.
Paddywax candles smell like the insides of libraries. Of places secrets are told and whispers are whispered. They smell like winter, and I want to burn them all. Today, yesterday when it was all rain, all wet and damp and miserable, mostly because of the cold and because of Sunshine and how I miss it now that is gone, again.
I have gone around to the beginning three times and not found the start.. Or, rather I have found a bell and I have run it and I am wondering who will answer the door. I’m writing in order to find out. I feel like I have been standing on the porch for a very long time and in the window there is a light, but the gauzy, hazy, tattered curtain hides just enough of what is inside.
I have a partner in crime. A dozen. A hundred. But only one in a cape, only one has wings. Together we have adventures. Some of them end in a song, and some in a learning. Mostly a song. I’d sing it, but it has a dozen hundred choruses.
I just thought you should know I was still around, somewhere.
I wonder of a girl who is longing. Who stares out into the rain and waits. I wonder what she waits for. The rain to stop, for sun. To be free. Free of the never ending weight of water?
They were all waiting. And if I say, if it is said out loud what happens, what next? Is it easy as water to stop falling? Is it the warmth of sunlight. Where sunlight is elsewhere and if you knew where it was, why wouldn’t you go? She already left once, every place that was horrible. Every place -
Vafi made it bearable. The unrequited peace of him, in the foodStore, managing the place, his place. The space – currency. Where else might money be exchanged?
What would you wait for, in the rain? If you were cold and alone and longing. Love? Is that all? If you were already sent away, once. Already ran away once. If you came to place and stuck, for a reason, shown in light. Illuminated.
What would you do, sweet William for love? Would you lose your mind? Would you give what you knew away?
Would you forget who you were, would you deny a hundred others a moment?
Why are you waiting, there, on the balcony with no rail? I think you are waiting for the rain. I think Ellis is waiting for the rain to stop. It can’t rain all the time, even in a place where it does. One day, the sun. There’s a story untold, I think, about the sun. About the one day.
Oh, good gravy. Maybe that’s it. The one day of sun and she stays because she loves him and she wants to see what Vafi does on the one day when the sun is shining.
But how to long would you wait, Ellis? How long? One hour of sunshine when the clouds part. An hour.
Or a minute.
Immediate want. If you were a girl, you are a girl, Ellis. Oh, William. What might a girl want who was waiting.
FOR HIM TO LOOK UP.
HE NEVER LOOKS UP.
that’s her immediate want – for Vafi to look up.
but what happened in the asylum, before the fire started. Before Ellis and Vafi both burned. And who destroyed/who went to the Vendors and destroyed Vafi’s memory of her, and Ellis’ memory of Vafi?
Or maybe Vafi always knew. Maybe -yes, William, I think that’s what she’ll see in his memories.
Herself. Different. Younger. Before the fire.
Don’t look at me like that.
More longing. I know. I wrote it down.