In continuation of yesterday’s First Sentence:
The greatest desire of your soul.
But that’s not possible. Even they can’t reverse life and death. They do magic, not wish-fulfillment. No matter what people think to the contrary, magic is always explicable to those who know enough to do so. How have I heard it said? “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” People who can’t explain it just aren’t “sufficiently advanced.”
A one sentence First Sentence:
“In reward for your service, we return to you the greatest desire of your soul.”
The first day I thought it was a plant. It had leaves, after all. The second day I still thought it was a plant. Yes, it was weird that there were vines growing on seven separate surfaces with no visible connections to the plant I’d brought in the previous day, but it had vines and leaves and I’m not a scientist. On the third day it waved at me from every wall of my bedroom and I no longer had any idea what it was.
Musings on something related to my novel:
<They’re all there. Alive! They’re just…trapped. If we can find a way to bring them back into this dimension, we can save them.
<That’s a big ask.
<But we have to try…don’t we?
<Yes. Yes, of course we do.
What if we were taught wrong. What if we’re meant to leave no inprint on this world, but live in it without tipping the balance, without doing any harm. What if that’s more important than being remembered?
I think we create monsters because they make it easier to contemplate the terrible things people do. But who is really more dangerous, a vampire or a man?
Here’s an idea that was so far from making it into my novel that it didn’t even become a scene:
And what of the ones who saw the future? What of the fourth dimension?
Of alternate realities and scenes that will never make it into my novel:
<An experiment,I repeat, taken aback, <Based on what happened to you when you were a child. He wants you to try and make yourself disappear?
<Is it safe?
<He’s invented probes that should make the transition with me, allowing him to monitor me at all times.
<He thinks I phased myself into another dimension, one that overlapped ours just enough for me to see and hear everything.
<So it’s not safe,I go back to the question he glossed over.
<Well… There are definite risks.
<Such as your getting stuck in whatever place you will yourself to,I state bluntly. <Why do you want to do this?
<He thinks it may be related to what happened to the Lyril.
I sit down, almost lurch down, into the chair.
My alarm rouses me at 0530 for food duty. Rolling out of bed, I mentally probe the household and am relieved to discover Carson, his essence a rippling pool that is at once refreshing and tinged with grief.
<Eyan?> he questions, fatigue etched into the two syllables of my name.
<Sorry,> I apologize, <I should have noced. I wanted to make sure you were back. Didn’t mean to bug you.>
<No, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to worry you.>
<We have food duty today,> I inform him hesitantly. <We’re supposed to be in the kitchens at 0630.>
Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. He’s new and I could go without him, say he’s mourning the loss of his amarid. No one would question it.
<Okay,> he agrees simply.
Zantia, the elderly woman in charge of food services, welcomes me back to Headquarters with a warm smile, shaking Carson’s hand when I introduce them. The first thing she asks of her fifty or so Tuesday helpers is that we divide ourselves into groups: chefs, assistants, and deliverers.
I find myself explaining this to Carson proactively. <Chefs need no guidance, assistants are those who feel comfortable cooking under supervision, and deliverers, well…that’s pretty self-explanatory.>
<I’d like to sign up for chef duty!> Carson exclaims with such exuberance that my chuckle is shared by several neighbors.
Assistant is the role I typically
I’ve spent a chunk of this evening trying to find a scene I remembered writing in relation to my novel. It was never meant to be in the novel itself – it was an exercise in solidifying the pre-novel lives of some of my secondary characters.
All I can find it an outline of the scene and this piece of dialogue:
“Davonte was a rascal. She got me to make my own first present from her.”
“Just part of it!”
What does it say about how long you’ve been working on a novel that you may have confused planning to write a scene with actually writing it?