Now, I’m reading Norman Longmate’s history of the V-2, Hitler’s Rockets. One of the great scientific breakthroughs of Germany’s V-2 program was developing a liquid rocket fuel – a mixture of alcohol and oxygen that provided far more power than a similar amount of solid fuel. In the UK, though, the military scientists hadn’t been able to create a similar fuel, with the result that although Britain knew that Germany was investing heavily in rocket technology, it was determined that these rockets used anywhere from four to twenty tons of cordite to get off the ground. There was no evidence of a facility within range of England capable of handling such a blast, so many British authorities believed that Germany’s rockets were incapable of reaching them.

They weren’t.

And so now I’m thinking about the difficulty of seeing something that’s right under your nose, when not only do you not know that it exists – you’ve actually been trained to expect to find something else. You don’t have to be ignorant, unintelligent or close-minded to be blinkered by your prejudices and expectations. I know, of course, that this has real-world consequences (and I’m sure I’ve been guilty of it myself), but what I’m thinking of now is its effect on a character living in London during the bombings – a character in my NaNoWriMo project, who’s got to square the evidence with a worldview that doesn’t allow for the evidence. I’ve known all along that he’d have trouble accepting what he comes to know is true – but now I realize that he’s going to have trouble even seeing it.

We’ve got a lot of work to do.

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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.

“Three…”

Dad’s voice, home now, moving down the hall, speaking to itself.

“Three…”

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…”

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.

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G’night, all.

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I feel a bit like I’m front-loading the story; if I keep on at this pace, I’m not sure I’ll make it to 50,000 words, even allowing for my current overuse of modifiers. But I’ll describe every dress in excruciating detail if I must. For now, the three main characters have been introduced, and hints dropped about their pasts. If I can just keep anyone from announcing his or her sudden, undying affection for anyone else, at least until the end of the week, I’ll be happy.

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