All week I’ve taken a break from my children’s novels in order to scour my grownup novel—a few chapters a night. I have revised as I’ve read (of course), refusing to backtrack until I make it to The End. Or—something mostly kind of almost like that, in a way…
Switching hats. Leaping from the voice of an eleven-year-old girl into the mind of a late thirty-something (if she’s not lying)—a woman battling writer’s block, backstabbing poets (alive, dead and suicidal), a mysterious seaside town, a virtuoso violinst who has never been seen wearing anything but a skeleton costume and who goes by the name of Death, horrible weather, a great-grandmother who doesn’t realize she’s nothing but ashes (not to mention barefoot), a rogue movie director with a thing for pith helmets, an “earthquake”, Fit Moms Inc., an actor with an assumed name pretending to be someone he once was, and an ex-husband who has somehow resurrected himself from an ocean grave, unfortunately returning with the same irritating habit of quoting Plato that he left with. By Act II of my novel, should my heroine be presented with the butterfly piece in the picture above, she would whisk it to her head and declare she was wearing her exploded brain as a hat. Butterflies for brains? She should be so lucky! That is—if I can pull off the plot and bring her properly to life…Shh. Don’t speak. Dooooon’t speeeeeeak…Oh, my.Perhaps I should turn in early tonight.
It’s 10:06 p.m. Do you know where your
pith helmet writing/revising armchair is? Well! Happy writing, then. Happy Easter egg dyeing. Happy bonnet wearing. Enjoy playing Richard Scarry’s Busytown game with your preschooler 100 times over the holiday weekend. And don’t call me in the morning.