Last fall, just before Viable Paradise, I started reading Something Wicked This Way Comes. In the midst of catching up on the VP instructors’ works, though, and then starting into the madness of NaNoWriMo, I didn’t finish it. But I spotted it on the shelf Wednesday, and thought, “I should pick that up as soon as I finish Boneshaker, then I’ll start into Bitter Seeds.”
Last night, just before bed, I started back in where I’d left off.
“Three,” a voice said.
Will listened, cold but warming, glad to be in with a roof above, floor below, wall and door between too much exposure, too much freedom, too much night.
Dad’s voice, home now, moving down the hall, speaking to itself.
Why, thought Will, that’s when the train came. Had Dad seen, heard, followed?
No, he musn’t. Will hunched himself. Why not? What did he fear?
The carnival rushing in like a black stampede of storm waves on the shore out beyond? Of him and Jim and Dad knowing, of the town asleep, of knowing, was that it?
Yes. Will buried himself, deep. Yes…
Three in the morning, thought Charles Halloway, seated on the edge of the bed. Why did the train come at that hour?
Is it any wonder I snapped awake at 3 AM, admiring that seamless shift from Will’s POV to his father’s, and thinking that it isn’t true, as Bradbury states in the next paragraph, that women never wake at 3 - because I had, and ain’t I a woman? And then I pondered whether I could use his POV tricks in the novel I started (and no, didn’t finish) during NaNoWriMo, which has three POV characters and tripped me up when I realized that a certain scene wanted two of them.
Fortunately, Mr. Bradbury’s grip on my early-morning mind loosened quickly. But it’s got me thinking again about what I wrote in November. I just reread part of it, and it’s dreck, but the bones of the story are there, and I think it’s a good one. About time I tossed out the hastily-written rags they’re clothed with and got down to work.