This morning, I saw a friend waiting with her daughter for the school bus and was able to honk and wave "Hi" as we drove past. I stopped at a crosswalk for a father with his son, helmeted and padded nine ways from Sunday in bright green and white, to let them cross the road. We exchanged a cordial wave and a smile as his son pedaled past. I drove the rest of the way to school with a grin. It's a small thing, and a huge thing, because while I'm always a Pay It Forward kind of gal, I noticed that smiling made the world brighter and the ride smooth and shiny. My son was happy, the incessant favorite song of the day ("Hardware Store" by Weird Al Yankovich*) wasn't getting on my nerves, and we were right on time despite the construction on Main. Now the weather was the same as yesterday, the same construction and backed-up traffic, the same time crunch as school start began, but these little happy changes that occurred first colored the rest and the Big Frustrations of yesterday were No Big Deals today.

Which, of course, brings me back to writing.

It's one thing to have your setting and your world-building securely in place, your character's quirks and motivations fleshing out the initial sketch on paper, but it's just as important--if not more--to include the mental state, the perception, the place-in-mind of the character so we can experience life through his or her emotionally-colored glasses. I can have the same objects and actions in place but describe them very differently, giving a peek into the character who is experiencing them; "long grass tickled by a gentle wind" says something very different than "long grass whipped by an uncaring wind". It might be the same grass, the same breeze, the same moment of the same day, but how the observer feels about life in general (or the wind in specific) colors not only this single description but the rest of the narrative and, by extension, the entirety of the world at that moment which may be bright and beautiful or desolate and dismissive.

Reading Harry Potter with my daughter really underlines that thought for me: watching how eleven-year-old Harry sees the world and the other people at Hogwarts and Privet Drive versus adolescent Harry watching Cho and Hermione, Dudley the Dursleys, Dumbledore, and Sirius with new eyes and short temper. How much did these people change and how much did Harry's POV shift and develop over time? There is more visceral rushing of blood into blushes and furious rages and white-hot, seething, uncaring WTF-ness going on in the heat of hormonal furies and fears. And it changes not only Harry but how we, the reader, experience Harry's world. It's yet another one of those lessons that seem obvious, but are often forgotten: while we know characters must change from the beginning of the book through to the end of the book, does the world (through their perspective) change with them or does it remain static? It's something I'm planning on wielding as I attack my WIP.

*wave *smile* Go Write Now!

* Lego-version of said song found here. And if that's not worth a smile, I don't know what is!

Irene passed with nary a whimper here and while I know that was hardly true elsewhere, I hope that everyone out there is relatively unscathed (or scathed to a very minor extent). What the storm did do is keep us from our last hurrah of the summer with friends at a Bed & Breakfast for the weekend. Fortunately, all the reservation-holders completely understood the cancellations and we braved the coming onslaught to at least go on our long-promised hike with one another a little north into Massachusetts. And so, armed with bug spray, smart phones, and a toddler backpack, two families with three small children dove into a beautiful wooded path as the skies began to darken.

It was both beautiful and eerie. The forest itself was thick and rich, moss bright against moist bark and toadstools popping along the path. I'd never seen so many bright orange salamanders in my life, so many of them were crossing the way that it distracted my children who wanted to pick up every one to feel the tiny feet against their palms. I'd also never heard the woods so quiet: not a bird or chipmunk or squirrel noise anywhere and heard only the low drone of insects, like a warning. The tiny tree frog toy clutched by our littlest hiker made the most appropriate sounds of clicking croaks as if we were in the rainforest jungle.

I was rapt in those moments, loving the magic of the woods while simultaneously trying to keep my son from squashing the mushrooms down like buttons underfoot, until we broke through the marked path onto the wide pipeline road. The steep incline was rocky and wet, runoff beginning to create rivulets and the sound of the brook at the bottom ominous in the quiet. It began to rain in earnest. The men were unsure of our path. The children began to complain. A gentle panic swelled as I looked at the sky, the clouds beginning to slide alarmingly fast, and there was a moment when I felt as insignificantly small and ridiculously shamed for the arrogance of hiking far from home with a downgraded storm on the way. We picked up speed and pulled the younger ones more quickly down the slope, through the forest, up the path, while they whined and complained or cried on our backs. We moved. And all I could think of was the ancient fear of pursuit in the woods, like wolves or brigands or soldiers but this was somehow more powerful: rain and wind. But the truth was it boiled down to almost the same thing: fear of the unknown consequence, the result of our decisions being out of our control, seeking safety in a moment when you know you're not safe.

At home in a warm kitchen with power and light, the storm swirled and threatened before the next day's downpour. We holed up for the day and lazed around playing games, reading books, making meals and snacks and treats. We watched movies and downloaded episodes and generally ignored the wind that tore down branches and swirled the clouds outside. We watched the storm pass on our laptops and smiled when the sun broke through. We used the grill for dinner.

But I still hold that delicate, frightening moment of my family's feet on the pine nettled path, bright orange salamanders scurrying out of our way, and the subtle quiet of the woods where my imagination ran and the storm nipped at our heels like teeth, pushing us on faster than we intended. It's a little parting gift from the storm, and I'll take it for what it is.