Moments of the Week: Cotton Bugs and Unforgettable Music

It's been a busy week. Lots of business going on in the workplace, plans being made and falling apart, money being spent, money NOT being spent (ask me why I'm angry at my bank).

But it only takes a moment to make a moment, so I have a few things  for y'all this week.

•  I discovered a species of bug I'd never seen before. One afternoon this week, I arrived home to bits of cotton flying everywhere. It looked like dandelion seeds floating on the air at first, and then I realized they were flying of their own volition, not on the wind. I managed to convince one to land on my hand so I could get a better look. (Have I ever mentioned on here that I like bugs? As long as they don't sting or bite or I don't know that they sting or bite, we're cool.) They looked like a mix between a fly and a mosquito wearing a cloak made from a piece of cotton ball and were no bigger than a centimeter. I'd never seen anything like it before, and they were everywhere, specks of white dancing in the air. I have not seen a single one since.
  
  Evidently, they're called Wooly Aphids. This blog, Nature Posts, has some fabulous pictures of them.

• I saw a man riding a dirt bike the wrong way down a sidewalk. The dirt bike was bright green and probably made for someone 3/4ths his size. He was hunched over and just toodling along.

•  There are some things that are so engraved on your memory that encountering it again can spark flashbacks to another time and place, or that are so attached to their topic that you immediately think of it. You can't help it. First the smell, the sound, the taste is there, and then the memory.
  
  I went to the movies yesterday with some girlfriends, a big group to see Mad Max: Fury Road, which, if you haven't seen, stop what you're doing and go. This post will be here when you're done. Go see it. Go.
  
  Are you back now? Cool. So the movie ended, and we left the showing theater, the whole group of us hanging right outside in the hall and talking about the movie. Well, I say talking. Mostly listening to the girl who arranged the trip, for whom Mad Max is to her as Disney is to other people: her childhood, her obsession, her favorite thing ever. We stood between the Mad Max theater and another one with a marquee that I couldn't see; it was one-sided and I was on the wrong side. There were sounds that could only be described as "violent" every now and then. Easy to ignore as my friend told us the making of Fury Road. And then we went silent, because we heard it.
  
  A swell of music.
  
  THE music.
  
  We shrieked. At least a few of us did, myself included. Because suddenly in the theater beside us there were dinosaurs and those gates opening and we were 7, 8, 9 years old again, sitting there as Spielberg revealed his theme park that was somehow more magical than Disney World. And we hadn't even bought a ticket yet. But with just a few notes, in a single moment we were there again. A few notes completely changed me from "mildly interested" to "I NEED TO SEE THIS MOVIE" because those iconic notes tapped into the well of childhood memory and magic and transported me to a place and time I barely remembered. I've got plans to see it Sunday.

So, dear readers, how was your week? Did you collect any moments for your stories?

Moments of the Week: Purple hair and fireflies

I got an idea yesterday.

Orson Scott Card once said, "Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don’t see any." It's true, really. Everywhere you look, there are scenes, settings, stories, characters, all waiting to be transformed. Working in a third-floor office with a full wall window overlooking a hotel, an apartment complex, and shopping center parking lots, hundreds of them pass me by a day. I've had many times when I've stopped and just watched as something interesting happens: fire trucks, construction, police officers, traffic back-ups, barking dogs, limos, dozens of stories happening right under my nose. All those moments are mine and mine alone.

And then I keep them to myself. I store the really interesting ones away, forget others, probably forget some of the interesting ones.

Yesterday, I thought, "Why not share them?"

So starting today and hopefully continuing each week, I'm going to report on my weekly inspirations. All those little moments that lit a small spark, and all of you, dear readers, are welcome to them. Consider everything a prompt that you are welcome to take and twist and develop as your own if you like. Because the moments may have been mine, but there's not reason I can't pass them on to you as well. Some weeks I may have many, some only one or two, but I'll try to have something interesting for you every week.

This week's moments:

• There was a woman walking down the side of the road. At first, I thought she was wearing a purple headscarf that wrapped around her hair and trailed down to her waist, but as I drew nearer, I realized it was her hair, set in small violet braids.
• As I parked in my driveway, a firefly landed on the windshield of my car. I had just been lamenting to myself that I'd yet to see one this season, so it was thrilling to have the first one so close. Only lightly illuminated by the single lamp on the front porch, it didn't know I was there, leaning in over my steering wheel for a closer look. In the minute we both sat there, inches apart, it didn't flash, not once, but there in the darkness, I could see the promise of light inside it, green and pulsating, flashing and roiling around inside it like lightning in a cloud. In that moment, I understood why they're called "lightning bugs."

So, dear readers, what moments did you have this week?

Book Recommendation: The Night Circus

Sometimes it's nice to be reminded that everything that's supposed to be a rule is really more of a guideline. To read a book, a well-loved, popular book filled with all those little "don't"s, and is actually well-written.

I read The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern this weekend, and it is just that kind of book.

"Don't write in present tense." - Erin Morgenstern did so, fabulously.
"Don't use second person." - Erin Morgenstern did, albeit only briefly at the beginning of chapters.
"Don't jump around the timeline." - Erin Morgenstern, again, did, taking the reader from mid to late 1800s to the early 1900s and back again as smooth as you please.
"Don't use adverbs." - Can you guess who did in plenty? If you said Erin Morgenstern, congratulations! You win a prize. That prize is me telling you to go read The Night Circus.

It's a tale of magic, mystery, and love, one that draws you in and makes you wish you were there, could be there, that it were all real. Imagine, if you will, a traveling circus. One day, there's an empty field, and the next, it's filled with circus tents, but instead of reds and yellows and blues, it's black and white. There is no trace of color inside the gates; even the fires and candles burn white. And it's only open at night.

Right off the bat, the place is a mystery, and once The Cirque des Reves opens, the mystery deepens in a mystical way as you explore each tent: an illusionist whose dresses change colors as she changes papers into doves, a garden made of ice, a tree covered in wishes, and countless more. And all this exists as a proving ground for two young magicians who have been dragged into a contest they don't fully understand the rules of. In telling their story, Erin Morgenstern makes her circus come to life in your mind in ways most books wish they could. It's a treasure for the senses, tantalizing you with all the sounds, sights, and smells of the circus (and oh, the food! I want a Night Circus cookbook so badly) with description so vivid, you feel you could be there. For the hours it took to read, I was undeniably at the circus, and when I closed the last page, I wondered why I wasn't still.

A little historical fiction, a little romance, and a lot of fantasy, The Night Circus is one of the best books I've read in a long time. Let me put it this way. I'm a HUGE Marvel fangirl. The day after I started to read this book, I saw Avengers: Age of Ultron. And I wanted the movie to finish up so I could go home and read more. So, final verdict?

Stop reading this blog post, go see Avengers: Age of Ultron, and then buy and read this book. In that order. Now. What are you waiting for? Here, I'll even help you. End of blog!

Retreat Review

I have found the perfect way to write.

Step 1: Get a whole bunch of writer friends.
Step 2: Get a house somewhere secluded.
Step 3: Insert friends into house with food, games, and computers.
Step 4: Profit. Word profit.

So, yes, the writing retreat with my critique group was a success. We rented a lovely cabin up in the Smoky Mountains and shoved fourteen of us in there. Everyone had a meal to cook (I haven't eaten so well in years), most of us brought board and card games, and we all had our writing utensil of choice ranging from notebook and pen to full gaming desktop with 25inch monitor.  Hey, you use what you got. All together, we wrote nearly 30,000 words, with additional progress on edits, converting a novel to a screenplay, squeezing two drafts together, and research.

Some folks mastered the art of procrastination with walks around the mountain, chilling in the outdoor hot tub, and playing 3-puck air hockey, pool, and Cards Against Humanity. Others wrote their butts off and topped their best one-day wordcount. My new count to beat: 5048. I could have kept going if 1) I wasn't so tired and 2) there was a game of CAH calling my name.

All-in-all, it was a fantastic, productive weekend that brought us all closer together, and we will be doing again. I can't wait.

Camp Wordcount: 24,166/30,000

Camping Time!

On my March 4th update, I said I'd decided on the necromantic weed titled Queen of Bones as my next novel project. A little after my Terry Pratchett post, I finished my outline. An actual, honest to God 100% complete novel outline, a story ready and raring to go from start to finish. I'm still in shock about it. I've always thought I was a pantser, but after the last few short stories and this, I think I can no longer deny the facts: I am a plotter. I got lucky pantsing. Once. I finished one pantsed novel. Everything else is a mess of words I'm going to spend half the year untangling.

In any event, I got roped into doing Camp NaNoWriMo thanks to a bunch of friends doing it. The NaNo team has made a bunch of positive changes since my last one. No more "add friends and hope for a cabin together," now you can invite a whole group and be with up to 11 friends in one cozy cabin. It's nice. I'm shacked up with a wonderful group of Absolute Writers that, on day 2, are already destroying their word counts, and we've got a fun little competition going with another AWer cabin. It involves s'mores, so that's all the motivation I need right there.

I've set my goal at 30,000 words for the month, 1k a day and approximately half the novel. Mid-April, I'll be going to a weekend writing retreat with my local critique group. I'm excited to see what kind of word count I end up after.

What about you, dear readers? Is Camp NaNoWriMo on your April schedule?

Goodbye, Sir Terry Pratchett

Just because you see the sledgehammer coming, it doesn't make it hurt any less when it finally hits you.

Whether you look up and suddenly there's a hammer two inches from making contact with your cranium or you see the windup from the other side of the room before they shot-put it into your face, it still hurts, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Terry Pratchett died yesterday.

Of course, he'd been sick for a very long time. Eight years, according to the various obituaries. It was going to happen. It was unavoidable. A sledgehammer from across the room.

Around a decade ago, my then-boyfriend now Mr. and I took a look around a bookstore. In the fantasy section, he stopped and pulled out a book: Guards, Guards!

"Have you ever read Terry Pratchett?"

"No. I've never heard of him."

"I'm buying this for you and you are going to read it."

He did. And I gave it a try. It didn't work for me. I just wasn't really enjoying reading anymore. Oh well. But when we moved in together, he brought all his books. Many, many Terry Pratchett books. They seemed interesting. His father gave him a copy of Making Money, the newest book, as soon as it came out. So I sat down with it. And finally, on the second try, I fell into Discworld in a way I have never been able to escape, nor have I wanted to. I wanted it all. I needed it all. I wondered how I didn't love Guards, Guards! the first time I read it. I read it all. Then I started to read everything else again. And a few years later, I wrote again. Thanks to Terry and the Discworld. He didn't just bring me to the Disc; he brought me back to my muse, to myself. I wasn't dying, but all the same, he saved me.

I cried when I heard the news. In the middle of my office, when the words "RIP Terry Pratchett" settled into my mind, I bawled and prayed that no one would come by or come in. How could I begin to explain what was wrong? "My favorite author died"? No. That's not right. "My idol died." Stronger, but it doesn't quite work. Not exactly. No, the only thing to say is, "Terry Pratchett died." Because he was so much more than an author, an idol. Those who didn't know him wouldn't understand that it's not just saying goodbye to one man.

It's goodbye to Sam Vimes and Sybil, to Carrot and Angua and Detritus and Cheery and Fred and Nobby and Reg and all the other members of the Watch who've protected and changed their city and their world.

It's goodbye to Granny and Nanny and Greebo and Magrat and Tiffany and all the wee free men. 

Goodbye to Rincewind and Ponder and the Librarian and Ridcully and the Bursar and all the other wizards, to Two-Flower, Cohen, and the tireless Luggage.

Goodbye to Moist and Vetinari and Adora, to Susan and the monks of Time, to Gaspode and Foul Ol' Ron and his beggars and CMOT Dibbler.

Goodbye to Death and the Death of Rats and the Great A'Tuin.

Goodbye to the Disc.

Because, though we'll always be able to visit it, its story is done. Everything we have now is everything we will ever have. Other people can try to write it, but it won't be Terry's Discworld. It's time is over, too. We haven't just lost a great man with a kind smile, a black fedora, and a creative mind like no other. We've lost the future stories of a hundred great men and women, dwarfs and trolls and Nobby Nobbses. And just saying "My favorite author died" can't begin to explain that.

Goodbye, Sir Terry Pratchett, and thank you. For everything.

Brief Update

Just a quick fly-by update on my status.

1. I am alive. Survived the southeastern snow of last week, although the drastic temperature changes are causing havoc on my sinuses. Last Wednesday, we had snow that buried us for days, to the point where there are still patches today. Today, with our 77 degree high. Friday's high is 38. Welcome to North Carolina.

2. Following my last post, I copied out my notes on both the stories I was trying to decide between, one document each. I was expecting to work on both. Story 2, the teenage necromancer, shoved the superhero tax collector out of the way and has run away with my plans. So I guess that answers which one I'll be working on now. It's growing like a weed. A necromantic weed.

3. I spend a good amount of time during the last few weeks updating my Goodreads account. Hadn't touched it since 2012. It took a while, but I'm all up to date now, I think. Feel free to add me as a friend if you have your own account.