A Momentary Aberration

You remember this post? Well, it has happened again. Except this time, instead of an assassin with a knife, it's an arsonist with a scary helmet.

Don't ask. Just don't.

I am quite certain that this dream is NOT a product of detective shows, which leaves me to wonder what exactly it is. Have I read any sci-fi/horror in the last few years?

Since I'm up anyway, I thought I might as well produce a blog post. And since I know you're all dying to know about the novel I finished on Friday, why don't I post about that?

Um. *gathers scattered 4 am brains* Ready, set, go.

I know what you're probably thinking right now. It's something like this. A Winters Tale, Sarah? You wrote a blog post just last month about every project you have planned. This was not among them. I know, I know, okay? This book was not supposed to happen. It was an accident. A momentary aberration.

That or it was just NaNoWriMo.

Either way, it was fast. I'm not entirely sure what day I began contemplating doing NaNoWriMo this year. I know it was sometime near the beginning of October. I had hit THE WALL, and I was having more difficulty getting through it than I expected. I felt like I was digging through solid rock with a tiny chisel -- a task I have, on occasion, given a character, but have never been faced with myself. I fully intended to get through that wall, but I did not want to lose my love of writing in the process. At the time, a combination of life events and writing blocks were conspiring to make me really hate writing.

This had to stop. Hence the NaNo idea. Nothing says 'I love writing' like a month-long noveling frenzy, right?

There was only one problem. I did not have a plot. Yes, I know this isn't supposed to be a problem, but without just a kernel of an idea to build a story around, there was no way I would make it through November. I played with several half-formed ideas (a traveler-goes-to-fantasy land book from the POV of a fantasy character, a world in which the French Revolution basically happens every twenty years,) but none of them seemed right. Until Wednesday, October 19th. (Thanks Lisa for catching that I wrote November at first.) I confess, I don't remember what first gave me the idea. But I know that by the end of the week, I had a plot. It went like this:

Hammer and Carol Winters have seven children. That in and of itself is enough to get them strange looks from many people they meet. What those people don't know is that the Winters family is full of superheroes.

Or ... well ... not SUPERHEROES exactly. Yes, they do have powers ranging from invisibility to perfect mimicry, but they don't really do the whole 'vigilante crimefighter' thing. Instead, they use their powers for more ordinary acts of heroism, blending in with the rest of the world.

That is, until Hammer's extraordinary skill as a firefighter catches the attention of the media. When a particularly stubborn journalism student refuses to leave without his story, it's up to the kids to drive him away. But will they succeed in protecting their family's secret, or will they blow their cover to the moon?

I loved this idea. I loved the characters it sent buzzing around my brain. I loved the humor of it and the idea of just making it up as I went along. I knew by the end of that day that there was no way I was writing anything else.

November 1st came along. I started writing. And, in the tradition of NaNovels everywhere, A Winters Tale did not do what it was supposed to. For starters, the journalism student was too nice. If my other characters started picking on him, everyone would hate them. Heck, I might hate them. Secondly, the dynamic between him and one of the other characters was far too interesting for me to let it go. Thirdly, I unintentionally set it at Christmas time.

By the end of the first week, my novel had transformed from the above drive-away-the-pest story into a full-blown romantic comedy. I was undeterred. I plowed on through the misery of stomach flu (in the book, not in me.) I wrote on as things marked 'Do Not Eat' were devoured, snowmen were crafted, and kitchens caught fire. (Again, not my own, though it would be super cool to write in a burning kitchen. Extreme Writing, yes?)

On November 18th, I knew it was time. I warned siblings and parents that the penalty for disturbing me would be disturbing, hid in a dark corner of my bedroom, and wrote the last 6k in three hours. It was hilarious. It was tender. It was gripping enough that one of my alpha readers' computer died of suspense while she read it. (True story.) And it was done. Two (or I guess it's three now) days later, I'm still in shock. I don't have a clue how it happened, but I finished a book, and it's good.

I'll try to get an excerpt up sometime in the next few days. Right now, I'm going to get up. I know better than to try and sleep any more.

UPDATE: Thanks to a ridiculous lack of sleep, I have now done something outrageous. Am still waiting to know what the repercussions will be. I'll update you if it's something worth posting about. In the meantime, feel free to mock me. I'll add something for you to start with: I am afraid of the movie Toy Story. (This is truth.)