I clean my room every Saturday night. I open my bedroom door to air out the dog aroma that permeates my life inside it’s walls. I work on my novel slowly but surely, then getting up to shove more stuff in my closet. Whomever designed big closets is a genius. I’ve started three blog posts today and didn’t post them.
Earlier, going through the forms of National Novel Writing Insanity, it is clear that everyone is in a pre-postpartum angst. By reading the forums, It wielded a stick at my creativity and said “GO thouest away.” So what did I do? I went to the library. For about a month and a half now, I had not asked to go there. Now, I have 11 books piled like leaves on the other side of my bed from where I sit now. Two nice old Intermediate Algebra/PreCalc volumes. All three ‘Things Not Seen’ books from Andrew Clements, which I was weird enough to get. I hate science fiction, usually. But I remembered Things Hoped For. I bought it a few years back and returned it because I thought it was too morbid. Clements is a genius though, just like the big closet person, and he seems to stop before the line of Too Far. In a weird way. But I’ve always liked his books, [School Story; Last Holiday Concert; Landry News] so maybe I’m making excuses. Either way, I like something about this series. There is a realism that you don’t even notice until you get up and as you’re walking down a flight of stairs, you literally look at your hands to make sure your not invisible like Bobby. Light particles still reflect off your skin. Realism is the best way to suspend disbelief. The narrative in the first book is so human, and it’s just a bunch of words in 11-Point font on a page. It’s got such natural inner dialogue, it actually doesn’t feel offensive to me. And the weird part?
No magic spells. No witches. Not even a werewolf.
Though, one of the characters did flip past a movie with teen vampires eating. He turned off the TV. I did a double-take when I read that, too, and I laughed for irony’s sake.
It is fun to read, and different, and exciting and everything. And even the invisibility thing isn’t put in some creep-o way. It’s compelling. It probably couldn’t even be tagged as fantasy. Ironic, don’tcha think?
So now I have had a break from writing my own dialogue for a bunch of thin brats waltzing around. I did something productive. I’ve closed down the NNWI tabs to banish away all of the bratty complaints and angst. And there are the words. My novel in the other window is there again, and I feel like I’ve taken a nice big sigh.
[From the unpublished archives of last Saturday, a Writer’s Block Day]