I want to write on it, but everything I try strikes me as trite and not up to the task. And we just don’t know enough yet.
Suffice to say I am in tears. Twenty children. Children. My heart goes out to the parents who this morning said goodbye to their little ones for the last time, never knowing it would be so. I weep as much for them as for the lives lost.
Why children? We will never know the answer, and we will never be satisfied with what we do learn.
Laying in bed, I realized what was missing in my novel–again–and began formulating ways to improve it. As I fell asleep, my thoughts became my dream, and I experienced a scene that I simply must put in the book–cleaned up, of course; I don’t think the guy doing the pommel horse routine nude needs to be in the book, nor does the Klingon I saw in the background. But the core of the scene, a discussion between two old friends that devolves–or is that evolves?–into a moment of revelation as to the greater plot even as it ends the friendship forever, is pretty golden. When I woke up (thanks, cats), I quickly got up and jotted down some notes, then stumbled back into bed. My notes are a mess, but they point the way.
AWESOME. Now I just need to find the time to write it.