That Moment

When the florescent bulb finally buzzes to life above your head. It took forever and no matter how many times you tried… it just wouldn’t light.You thought you’d tried every connection… when at last…

And then you can’t tear yourself away.

Trapped at the keyboard for hours. Ideas pouring out of your head.

I knew I was trying to cram too much into one book, or even two. It took the focus off of the main characters. You’re not supposed to have just a story with people in it, your characters are supposed to carry the story, and I lost track of my characters. Of my original idea.

I’ve broken everything down into a short story series. Fifteen novellas in total which will revolve around a group of youthful supernatural enthusiasts. They’re going to inherit the world anyway, they might as well step up when it comes time to save it – right?

I have the two over-arching plots in place and the chapters outlined for six of the books. I even had to go ahead and throw in one of the scenes I’d been thinking about previously. But now it’s late… and I have work in the morning… And currently – still a job to go to in the morning. I won’t complain about that. Fingers crossed for a easy enough day to spare my mental facilities for the evening.

Advertisements

We’re not alone

I love the feature that allows me to schedule my posts. That way I don’t have a bunch of them exploding upon the internet at once. The only time this isn’t convenient is when I happen to mention a time or something. Such as this morning. It’s Sunday… it’s early. I’ve just let the dogs out. I could go back to bed, easily. I can generally fall asleep within moments of my head hitting the pillow, even when I’ve already been up and moving around. It’s my super power. But I always feel like I’m missing out on my day when I sleep for too long. Not that I can do a whole lot when there are people still snoozing in the house, but I can sit at my computer.

I often joke that we have faeries in the house when things go missing. Mischievous, playful and sometimes vindictive, they steal and hide away your belongings. We’ve seen quite a bit of activity lately. I’m not an organized person per say, but I am consistent on where I tend to put things. This is how I know I’m not just crazy. On second thought, redact that last statement.

Last night as I stretched out in bed, the dog started digging on his pillow. There was no apparent reason, he just got the urge to dig. So I got up, walked over, and popped him lightly on the nose and made him lay down. I climbed back into bed and was just closing my eyes when out of no where I smell maple syrup. I had barely a second to contemplate the aroma when I hear a small child’s voice say “hello”. I stretched to look back toward the door. It didn’t sound like my son, nor was it directed at me. It was out in the hallway at the dog’s level.

Figuring the fae’s conversation with the canine was none of my business, I shrugged and rolled over to fall asleep.

I suppose that I really need to get my butt into gear to get the house cleaned up and start leaving some offerings. There are still a couple of things that they’ve hidden so well I’ve resigned myself to them being gone for good.

The Cat and the Park

We vacationed a lot when I was younger. My father was not a frugal man. He was a cheapskate, don’t get me wrong, but when it came to things he WANTED to do… he was a spender. I remember one of the last trips we made before moving to Black Mountain. We were staying in the Knights Inn, which was my FAVORITE at the time. The Knights Inn on 70 in Swanannoa had each of their rooms painted as a scene out of a story book. A castle stood on the top of a hill with a unicorn running through the meadow below. The murals were gorgeous, and enough to convince this six year old girl that there must TRULY be magic in the world if they would put it the walls of this simple hotel.

Next door to the hotel was a gas station and just behind that was an RV parking lot; nothing more than a resting place for people passing through. Separating the two was a little babbling creek. I asked my father to go explore, the creek and the woods called to me. We wound up in the little campground where I stumbled across this very large maine coon cat. He was a brown and black tabby with white splotches. He trotted over to us and we became fast friends. His owner belonged to one of the nearby RVs.

My father struck up a conversation with the man and his wife. They were just as original as the mountaineers and we were: the cat’s name was Kitty Boy. I was enamored with Kitty Boy. I wanted a cat of my own for ages. My parents had even tried to get me a kitten when I was smaller, but she was neurotic and quickly made an exit from our household. We owned an ancient Tom cat named Morris that my dad brought home from the V.F.W., but Morris was not my cat. Morris was an outside cat.

Kitty Boy rekindled my need for a cat. I don’t remember much of our trip that year. For all I can remember, it might have been the precursor to renting the Brown House and that was our trip to house hunt. But I remembered Kitty Boy, and every evening before we settled in to the hotel, I would beg to go visit him. My father was happy to oblige and Kitty Boy’s owners were very kind. They invited us over to relax each evening in their lawn chairs.

Kitty Boy and I would chase fireflies while mom and dad chatted with the RVers. It was a fantastic trip, and I was heartbroken when we had to leave. I even asked if we could take Kitty Boy with us, but alas, his owners were quite attached to him. So we said our goodbyes, and I started actively begging my parents for a cat.