After the Revelations

This is not how I thought writing would go.

I had a romanticized, glamorized vision about the writing process and a novelist’s life. I thought I would be dictating the story, making it up and writing it down. Instead, here we go again. Philea finishes her wide-ranging tale and brings it back to the moment where it split away,  and joins two other paths. One path was forged by Pram when he told his part of this story, and the other path was forged by the six primary characters on the Wrinkle.

I’ve been waiting for this re-connecting. I’d seen and heard, experienced, if you will, what they were going to say and do once they came back together. Honestly, Philea’s side-trip astonished me. She went into a life that I didn’t know existed. It’s also surprising that it startled her as much as it startled me.

But, at last her side-trip is done. It’s time for those long-awaited next scenes. But before I go into writing those scenes, I need to soak in what Philea and the other characters experienced. She and Pram shared more examples of parallel life-experience-reality-existences — a LERE, their shorthand for other Now events that that lived (or are living) and share with the rest trapped in this cycle.

They’re trying to understand what will happen to them. They’re attempting to take a piece of information and fit it in with other pieces of information to create a substantive, believable cause and effect tale for what they’re enduring. That’s human nature, to fill in the gaps, color them with some form of logic or explanation, and make it all whole.

I feel for them, pitying them, because I know that’s not their nature. That’s not what they’re living. Even as they draw closer to the truth, sometimes even stating it in incredulous terms as a possibility, the six don’t always agree on the verbiage or logic. The logic argues against their standard expectations about reality, existence, and the arrows of time. Besides, not all of their experiences will support the truth, in their minds, because they don’t remember everything that they experience. Remembering more answers less by introducing more complexity and gaps. At this point, I think all readers will understand that.

So listening  to — hah, typing — my characters’ struggle to resolve these new fragments of information, I really feel for them. The passages of their thoughts and dialogue that I’ve typed leave me oddly reflective.

That’s a first, raw, impression. On greater thought, it’s not leaving me oddly reflective. Instead, I’m taking what I learned through my characters’ learning, and applying it to my existence, here in the real world.

We’re all pieces. We see ourselves as pieces that comprise a whole. Yet, few of us ever fit fully, completely, and comfortably. And when one of us goes, we struggle to see the new whole, because we remember the whole that we knew, and lament its changes. We search for answers and rarely find closure and resolution. We remain wondering.

With these notes softly echoing in my mind, I sip the final dregs of cold coffee and end my day of writing like crazy.


Floofalrous (catfinition) – characteristic, of, or relating to floof behavior; marked by subtle grace, watchfulness, and a pleasing nature.

In use: “With floofalrous movement, the small ginger tabby walked in through the open front door, looked around the room, and found a chair where he made himself comfortable.”

The Plague

When it was almost one, I thought the thoughts would soon be done.

Then it was past two, and there were still a few.

When the clock showed three, I got up to pee.

Then, at four, I peed some more.

Seeing five, I fought to close my eyes.

Then it was six, and there was no fix.

When I saw seven, I mourned the dawn,

and realized at eight, I was going to be late.

I hit the road before nine with a tired head,

now it’s ten, and I want my bed.

At eleven, I stole a nap in my ride,

which did nothing for my back, neck, or side.

Dragging myself back in at twelve with sunken eyes,

I sucked down coffee just to feel alive.

At one, I splashed my face.

At two, I realized I had three more hours of this place.

Striking three, the coffee made me pee.

But at four, I drank some more.

Then it was finally five, and I’d somehow survived.

Home at six, I got ready for a party mix.

Seven found me with my friends, ready to go.

When it was eight, we got some food on a plate.

Then at nine, we paid the dime.

Ten found me at a club, having fun.

By two, I was heading home, tired and happy, but wishing it was one.

At three, I laid down in bed,

and then the thoughts returned,

plaguing my head.



Sweet Meow

Do you ever listen to the start of Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” and think that it sounds like a cat saying meow with a prolonged techno accent? Listen to the video and see if it doesn’t sound like, “Mee-oowww,” at about the seventeen second mark.

No? Is it just me?


Saturday’s Theme Music

Today’s theme music comes to me from Pink, 2001. I woke up streaming it. I’d paraphrased the words, though. I was singing, “I’m getting up, so you better get the coffee started, I’m getting up.”

Here is “Get the Party Started”. I enjoy the beat and lyrics, and her activities as she’s getting ready, like sniffing her pits. LOL.

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