Plotting & Planning, Plotting & Planning

So. Now that book's (sort of, vaguely, not really) out of the way, I'm starting to think about the big question. What comes next?
It's getting time to put the old manuscript away for awhile and then return to it with unblinkered eyes some time hence, but the big decision remains: what to work on next. (I'm procrastinating on a. editing, b. the dishes & c. taking the kids to the park in the rain here, it's always nice to kill three birds with the same stone.)

I love the excitement of diving into a brand new story, of finally trying to grasp some of those images and conversations that have been swimming around for months or sometimes years. But first to decide.
My choices at present are between some old and new manuscripts.

Choice One: Overly Caffeinated Werewolves (Are Not Pretty) Book Two in the Emporium Sisters' Escapades. Bella's story. I suspect it would pretty much write itself... and be soooo much fun.

Choice Two: The Toad Lord: A re-telling of The Golden Ball or Frog Prince (I have not yet seen the Disney Version & would put it off until the manuscript was finished). I'd be setting it in 16th century Scotland and making it a lot more gritty. I'd also get to use my Toad Lord pinterest board for heaps of visual inspiration, thus strengthening my claim that Pinteresting is working. I made notes for this story decades ago and put it on the back burner. It would be great to resurrect the idea and the perfect place to use lots of lush, descriptive writing. Mmmm.

Choice Three: Sara and the Seven Beasts: Spoilt teenager Sara falls through the sea into another world. Created centuries ago by the seven dancing beasts, it has since become corrupted half the beings have lost memory of their animal selves. Sara & the Princess Lasiale have to wake the sleeping beasts in order to end the oppression of the unchanging and bring harmony back to the world.
This is pretty much half written. I would like to get it finished, and it has some great bits in it...

Choice Four: Searching for Seadragons: 17 year old Zoe retreats to the sea after witnessing a suicide. Over her year by the shore she thinks about who she is and the world around her. Her sister and friends keep interrupting her reflections. This is a rewriting and editing job. I wrote it back in high school and quite a lot of publishing houses (OUP, A&U etc) liked the first few chapters & asked for more... but then declined. Re-reading it, they were right. The ending is completely unsatisfying and I missed the obvious. You know - the guy yelling hey - I'm the one, I'm the one. Now to re-write, scrap the last chapters and add drama and romance. I do love the characters... and lets be honest, it would only be 20,000 words and a rewrite. And fun words. Sea words.

Decisions, decisions. Now let me add to the mix I've decided to do NaNoWriMo - which is when you write a novel (50,000 words) in a month in November, and only Overly Caffeinated Werewolves (Are Not Pretty) or The Toad Lord would be eligible for this, and I have a bit of juggling to do.

Which one next... which one..
Let me ponder, and return to the dishes and my editing, and hey, looks like the rain has stopped for the moment, the playground calls.

Very First Hair Cut

Poppet had her very first haircut yesterday
Her big brother had about six haircuts (including the tragic at-home-job) by the same age, but she's been a bit slow off the mark. She's visited our local barber's a lot with the Sprocket, so she knew the drill and looked forward to it, which made it all a lot easier.
Our barber is brilliant for kids. She has a little red car for them to sit in, pictures, board books and bribes treats. My Sprocket always sits perfectly still while his hair is being cut  (waiting for his turn is another matter) and Poppet followed suit. She knew this was serious business.
The barber distracted Sprocket with sweeping the floor (would that he did the same at home!) and all up, I had little to concentrate on except taking photos and not getting weepy at my leetle baby girl growing up. We left with a small envelope of curls. Sigh.
They grow so fast. Sniffle.

                                                   Sprocket Sweeping

                                                 Very serious, important business

                                                Isn't the set up brilliant!

                                             New hair! (But early morning with bed-head!) 

Dream Home

I dreamt of my dream home recently.
Or one of them. How can anyone decide which dream home is The One. The castle in Scotland, the villa in Italy, the chalet in the alps, the terrace in Melbourne? Decisions, decisions!
The dream home that is presently Numero Uno is the Queenslander-By-The-Sea.
My dream was incredibly clear. I was driving home and I pulled up at a front gate tucked into a thicket of hibiscus and bougainvillea and other lush greenery. Going inside the gate barefooted children (presumably mine, and there were three, I'm fairly sure...) were cavorting on bright green grass, all ringed with palms and the tall hedge of flowered tropical plants. My Beloved stood talking to some random by the front door. And the house itself? A brilliantly white weatherboard with a wrap around veranda, shutters, gables in the roof. I still get happy shivers just thinking about it.
Now, I would try to put it out of my mind completely, because as I said, there are many dream homes (thus the ever-growing Pinterest board) but I've had dreams come true before, so I can't help wondering.  
I dreamt once that I would work in the National Library in the Solomon Islands. My dream included me packing for it, and then being by the sea and lots of SI kids playing on lianas along the shore and jumping into the water. I woke up petrified, being very over the South Pacific, having only recently returned from an 18 month stint. Less than two years later, I was working in the National Library in the Solomon Islands. And as that was when I met My Beloved, which in turn led to my kids, I can't help but think it was meant.
So... I don't quite see how my dream home can eventuate in the near future... but I'm keeping an open mind. Stranger things have happened.

How about you, do you have a dream home?
Or a dream that came true?

Where Do You Go To?

I've been ploughing through the editing for my last manuscript and, as always, it's taking waaaay longer than expected. However, I'm nearly up to the uncharted territory... the stuff, well, the stuff I have very little recollection of writing.
I remember getting up to make teas, coffees or hot chocolate. I remember occasionally looking up at the tv. As to what I was tapping away? Not so much.
I remember what I intended to write, my plans and drafts, but... I've still 100 pages left to edit, I'm not even halfway through, and from here on in, the stuff I haven't really edited before, my memory is not so good. Seeing as I wrote it in a big chunk only a week ago, that strikes me as a little bit strange.
It's happened before - this odd non-remembering, and it's always a sign I am, or was, on a roll. Whether it was a good roll, I've yet to determine, but I do find the process interesting.
How about you?
Do you go 'away' when you write?
And where do you think it is you go?
Is it just immersion in the story - living it - or something else?
(Hint: I'd prefer it if you don't say early onset dementia. Generally my memory is bad, but not that bad!)

The Golden Ball (And once again, I do not have Fireman Sam's Phone Number)

I've written before about fairytales I do not like. They are legion. One I do like, however, is The Golden Ball or The Frog Prince. It's about a princess who throws her golden ball into the well, which is then rescued  by a frog. His condition? That she take him into the castle with her and carry him everywhere. She says yes yes, gets the ball and then runs inside. At dinner that night the frog knocks on the castle door to remind her of her promise, and the king enforces it. Lesson - do not make promises you don't intend to keep. Later of course, he turns into a Prince. I haven't seen the Disney version yet, but I'm looking forward to it.

Anyway, yesterday, we went to the beach with a golden ball. It even had sparkles in it. 

This was, as I now know, foolish. The tide was in and there wasn't a lot of sand. The first thing my Sprocket did was throw the ball into the water. "Call Fireman Sam!" he told us. 

Fireman Sam is a cartoon character and if he were alive he'd live in PondyPandy in Wales, UK. 

"I don't have his phone number," I told the Sprocket. Gritting my teeth, I took off shoes and socks, rolled up my cords and paddled into the icy water. Did I mention it was -1celsius yesterday? A beautiful blue sky, completely cloudless, but -1. Gritting my teeth I headed off after the ball, which was bobbing happily along the coast. 

Returning with the ball (and sopping trousers) I handed it to my Firstborn. 

"Now Sprocket, Fireman Sam does not live around here. Do not throw the ball into the water. Mummy does not want to go into the water again. Okay?" 

He nodded. "Okay." I handed the ball back to him. 

He threw it into the water. He has an exceptionally good throwing arm. 

"Call Fireman Sam!" he said happily. 

"I told you, Sprocket! We don't have his number! Fireman Sam is not going to get here." 

"In you go, Fireman Mummy," My Beloved said cheerfully. He still had his shoes and socks on. 

Again I entered the icy water and retrieved the golden ball. 

"Okay, Sprocket. Mummy is not going to retrieve that ball again. You throw it into the sea and its gone. And neither Fireman Sam nor Mummy is going to get it back!" 

I threw the ball to him. He threw it back. We repeated this a few times. And then he ran off and threw it into the sea again. 

He ran back and pointed to the ball as it floated into the yonder. "Look! Call Fireman Sam!" 

"Okay. All gone. Lost," I explained. 

"Call Fireman Sam!" 

"We don't have Fireman Sam's number," I said. "And I told you, I'm not going in again. You can negotiate with your Daddy. But as far as I'm concerned, it's gone." 

We watched it drifting away, sparkling in the sun. It was following the line of the bay along the coast. 

I got to thinking about poor sea creatures, a whale or something, swallowing it up, thinking it was a jellyfish. It was plastic. Rubbish. Killing material. Damn it. We'd better retrieve it. 

"See that ramp," I pointed out to my beloved, "We'll try to pick it up there." 

He herded the kids and they ran along to the ramp while I gathered up shoes and socks. 

At the ramp, the ball bobbed just out of reach. I scurried along the rocks until the ball was just in reach. Victory. We had the ball back. I handed it to my son. He was firmly told not to throw it into the water. So I probably shouldn't have been surprised when, not long after that, he kicked it over the edge of the ramp... We ran up to the path and along to the next platform and then down the scrub path. The ball was just in reach, bobbing along the line of rocks put there to prevent erosion. Scrambling down I balanced along the rocks until the ball was just close enough to lean out precariously and gather up. 

Triumphantly, I returned with the spoils. 

My Sprocket held out his arms. 

"No. Mummy's ball. Mummy is holding the ball until we're home." 

His face crumbled. He tried big eyes, sad eyes, grumpy disbelieving eyes and humorous, you-can't-be-serious-ha-ha-Mummy-what-a-joke-eyes. I stayed firm. 

"Mummy's ball." 

We headed inland along the paths through the bush thicket back to the playground. Here, far from water, we played catch. 

I'm still waiting for the reward for my rescue. 

Do I get a princess? A frog? 

A frog-prince? Will I kiss my beloved and he will turn into one of those cute little green tree frogs? 

Or will that be my Sprocket who transforms? 

Hmmm. Let me go try it out.