Last night I experienced a Sublime Author Moment.
Sunday morning 6:25 am local time: I wake up to a gift. An email. My audiobook narrator has uploaded the final go-around on the recordings for The Bookminder. A kid on Christmas morning, I now have to wait patiently until such time as I can actually sit and give a proper listen to the files. (For when your manuscript cracks 100K in length, you end up with nearly 12 hours of audiobook.)
My weekend comes to a close, full of all those weekend-things one inevitably fills their time doing. Exhausted, I stumble into bed at around 11 pm after glancing wistfully at the waiting chapters.
Monday morning 10:45 am local time: I begin my marathon listening session. I pause not even seven minutes into the whole to shoot off a quick email of tears-in-eyes gratitude and praise to said narrator for making my story sparkle with unexpected life.
The day continues, full of listening, chores, occasional breaks to tackle bits of a looming To Do list.
Evening approaches. As does Chapter 7 — my own personal favorite. It is then that a thought strikes…
(Sunday evening 8:45 pm local time: Bonfire. First of the season. And the moon is peeking through the trees to the east. We end up having a quick debate that ends in a Google search. The full moon is actually tomorrow.)
Monday evening 8:45 pm local time: I run around the house having a giddy fit as I realize the timing has lined up just about perfectly. I can quite literally listen to my “moon gazing scene” while gazing up at the springtime moon.
9:15: But I’m too early. So I run back inside to make myself a warming cuppa. A mug of steaming hot peppermint tea (also from said favorite chapter 7 scene) accompanies me back outside for my vigil.
I wait. I wait some more, noting nervously that there appear to be thickening clouds to the south and east. And I’m still too early.Rather than risk getting through the chapter before I see my moon, I decide to listen to some tunes. I turn on my Spotify list for the series. The first song plays and my breath catches. At 70º it is not particularly a winter night — even with as much efforts as that season made to stick around in Wisconsin this year — but the song is oddly fitting. Well played, universe. Well played.
A couple more soft and atmospherically appropriate tunes round out the waiting. Feeling the moon more than seeing it behind the tangle of black and bare branches that shade our yard from the surrounding, I turn to my work.
“Chapter 7. Nagarath stood in the garden reading the wind…”
Somewhere further away, the high school’s field lights are extinguished. House lights off; stage is illuminated and the audience sits hushed and ready.
And then a glint, a piercing whiteness within the darkened skies. Within seconds it grows. The moon doesn’t even manage to clear the cluttered tree line before the clouds claim her. But I sit in the early springtime silence and polish off the last of my tea, drinking in the words from a scene that has come to life for me in new ways. It occurs to me then that, perhaps, if I were brave enough, I could start a series of public readings in the park– summertime evenings, when the fireflies dance. No, that might be altogether too grand an attempt. The moon has bobbed to the surface of the clouds again. I discover for a second time that my phone camera does not take good photos of a nighttime moon. But that’s fine. This is mostly for me, anyhow. And it is magnificent.
[Also: Because the world is a funny funny place and I am a clumsy clumsy person. I might have broken a toe on my left foot during this adventure. Pride goeth?]