In Which I Am 59 Pages Into The New Novel

Today I knew the new novel was going to stick - there have been other 'new novels' in the last couple years - because I found myself wanting to go to the library to look up stuff. This is the weird litmus test I have with a novel. If I feel the need to go downtown and gather some books, then it's a keeper. If I don't, then I'm probably going to get bored of you pretty quickly. Maybe I should apply this to relationships.

'Hey, mamma. Want to go down to the library with me?"

Books I checked out for research:

"Twilight At The World of Tomorrow" (about the New York World's Fair)

"You Couldn't Ignore Me If You Tried" (essays on the John Hughes Brat Pack movies)

I wrote a scene today where the main character tries to mend her dress with scraps of fabric left over from the creation of other kit-bashed dresses for her cousins. The kernel for this scene actually began in another novel (did not go to the library for) a while back. It struck me as I was writing it, that this new novel is stitched together from the scraps of other books that never came together, or did, but unsuccessfully. The idea for the story is pretty old - 15 years old, at least. Frankenstein lurks behind everything I do. Elizabeth was sort of this bastard child - unexpected, vibrant - everything else seems kibble, scrap for the creatures that sometimes come to life when the electricity runs through their patchwork bodies.

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