Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Unknown Devils)

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We bought a couple of Powerball tickets yesterday, mostly because we thought it would be a good way of warding off being struck by lightening while simultaneously being stung by bees and gnawed by sharks in our kitchen, which is approximately 950 miles away from the nearest ocean.

But if I don’t make the rounds in a timely fashion today, it may mean  I’m out at a car dealership, looking at Lamborghinis—perhaps one for each foot.  Or maybe I’m just taking a nap and dreaming of a working Honda . . . 

Meanwhile, this week’s passage is about that pesky John Anderson-Smith, who’s been present at a lot of mysterious deaths, including the murder for which our Clyota was framed.   Mr. Anderson-Smith has a way of installing revolving doors in police holding cells—but it doesn’t look as if he’s ever been held in a Library detention cell before. . . 

“Anderso— the unknown gentleman is still in the Cooler, right?” I asked.

“First thing I checked this morning,” said Charlie.  “He tried to lawyer up , which is tough to do without phone privileges, then tried a bribe—so once he does cough up some ID, he’ll be visiting our friends in Federal court.”  He rolled his eyes.   ”We’re going to have to file his incident report under ‘Crime dash dash Stupidity.’”

“Good,” I said, looking at Reynard, who was frowning.  “Not good?”

“The problem,” he said, “with trapping the devil one knows, is that one is then forced to deal with unknown devils.”

So Familiar . . .

I had a brilliant idea for today’s post, but can’t remember what it was . . .

In the bottom of my Bag of Holding* is an ever-evolving wad of paper—envelopes, receipts, old computer cards, post-its, torn pages from legal pads, and a couple of abused memo books—all scribbled over with bits and pieces of plot and characters and dialogue and what ifs and a lot of miscellaneous stuff that I had to write down, lest they be lost forever.

I swiped the idea from Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers, who mentioned in Bird by Bird that she carries a file card and a pen in her back pocket at all times to catch moments.   My wardrobe, such as it is, has a distinct lack of back pockets, and the kids tend to disappear my stock of file cards no matter where I hide ‘em, but I do my best.

And it mostly works, though if I were more efficient, I’d transcribe these precious jewels each night and add annotations so I’d have half a chance of remembering why I thought it was vitally important to stop whatever I was doing, scrawl “cerumen = earwax” on my Visa bill in green ink, and save it until it turned into bagmulch.

It’s a cool fact and all, but after a week or longer—I have to start dating these things, or paying my bills in a timelier fashion—I’m not sure whether I wanted to gross out the kids, pass it along to the library’s Trivia Program Committee,** or write a story about the weirdly disgusting CeruMen who attack Hygiene City and are fended off by the Sonic Q-Tip Squad, until it’s discovered to be a terrible misunderstanding, because on a smaller scale, cerumen is actually the body’s way of cleaning its own ears, like oysters do with nacre and irritants,*** and the aliens only wanted to help keep the streets clean.

Which is marginally better than the plot I’m currently tinkering with, but never mind that—it’s the uncertainty that’s getting to me.^ I mean, maybe that bit of whatever had sparked something that would transform the American Literary Landscape™ ^^ or at least get me a book deal.

Okay, probably not—though the CeruMen thing might . . . nah—but it’s a new way of spinning my wheels without the pesky responsibility of forward motion, and I can’t possibly have too many of those.

And it netted me a post, so I’m calling it a provisional win. Even if the one I forgot was better.

How do you spin your wheels?

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*Calling it a purse is like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch—technically true, but not sufficient unto the purpose.

**The Trivia Program was two months ago. Just sayin’

*** Except pearls are more like luminous boogers, really, which is precisely how I feel about oysters, so it all fits together nicely. Yeah, I probably
did want to gross out  the kids.

^I should be used to it by—oh, Lord, I just realized that these  footnotes are the cerumen for my stray thoughts. Yick!

^^In a good way, so hush

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Honor)

Have a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

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First,  HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY to anyone who fills that role for a kid.

Thank you.

Mom, your cards are gonna be late, because they’ve been vacationing in my bag since mid-April and just came up for air yesterday.

I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know that you love me anyway.

Um . . . Right?

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In honor of Mother’s Day, I’m backing up a little in the story and sharing part of a message sent to Clyota from her mother, who, as anyone who’s stuck with this so far may remember, was a well-respected space pilot who was posthumously convicted of murdering the population of an entire lunar base.  This hasn’t made Clyota’s life a picnic, but they had their differences prior to that, too.

I’d also like to add, in honor of my own mother, that none of this novel is in any way  biographical or autobiographical, except for a couple of work-related issues I may or may not be harboring;  if Mom’s a mass murderer, she got clean away with it.  My mother is a wonderful woman with a great sense of humor and a forgiving nature who in no way resembles Clyota’s mother—except I’d like to think that she’s proud of me, too.

“I’m sorry to dump all this in your lap, but I don’t trust anyone else to do what’s right.  I don’t know if I trust myself . . . but I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.  You know me. . .

“I hope that it isn’t necessary for you to go public, but if it is, I’m sorry for the trouble it’s sure to cause.

“One last thing: I love you, Clyota.  And I’ve always been very proud of you for standing up for what you believe in, even if it isn’t what I had in mind—I guess that proves you’re mine.

“I know I haven’t always shown it and God knows I wasn’t the best mother in the world—spent too much time away, I guess.  But I want you to know that being your mother is the greatest honor I have ever been given.

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Emotional Hook)

Have a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

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I’m really pleased at the reaction people are having to the bits I’m sharing of this story—especially last week, when my badass librarian warrior not only fell apart, but let someone else hold her together for a little while.    Thank you all so much for your comments!

This passage is separated from last Sunday’s by a sentence I decided to cut anyway.

Charlie handed me a wet cloth and I pressed it against my hot, swollen face for a long moment, before letting him pull me to my feet and lead me out of the bathroom.

Reynard was leaning against the opposite wall.

“I hope you got all that,” I told him, almost too wrung out to stand. “Good emotional hook.”

“Alas,” he said, touching the side of his lens, “a missed opportunity.”

I blinked at him, then realized that there was no glow from the red lights on his implants. I reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you.”

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Overwhelmed)

Have a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

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I’m skipping over what the data pocket held, because that’s kind of the point of the story, and going straight to Clyota’s reaction.    

I’m sure Charlie’s really glad he followed her to the bathroom . . .  

“This is going to sound stupid, but are you okay?” His voice was gentle, and kind, and exactly what I didn’t need right then.

I shook my head. “No,” I said, as the lights went bright through the hot, unshed tears that were suddenly glazing my eyes. “No, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for so—” I buried my face in the towel and, to my horror, began to cry. Not pretty tears, but great wrenching bursts that hurt like hell.

Immediately, Charlie was there, and I was sobbing so hard, so loudly, that I couldn’t do anything but hang onto him as three years of packed-down misery and twenty-nine years of resentment, pride, betrayal, and love welled up and had their say.