Damn, I seem to be getting later and later with my posts!

My fault, please pardon…

I was watching “The Twin Towers” segment of “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy this weekend, when it struck me–how long the movies are, all the particular details, the emotions, the physical drive of the things…all of these elements are maintained throughout the films.  With no lapse in the worldbuilding, no loss of interest in the characters, no visible decrease in the passion for the film at any time.

Eight years.  Yeah, I looked it up.  Altogether, it took about eight years for Peter Jackson to finish the films.  Eight years!

I wonder if I could ever maintain the passion for a project for such a length of time.  As it is, before I’m a good 3/4 of the way through one book, I’m well into thinking about the next.  And I wonder if that takes away some of the passion for the book I’m currently working on, that I’m so quick to move on to something else.

Part of it is putting the product out there as much as we can, I know.  And the fact that authors’ brains are usually so full of stories it’s only natural to feel driven to get them out.

Still…I wonder about creating something that would require absolute focus, complete devotion, for as long as it’d take to do the thing complete justice.

Can you imagine it?

Mixed emotions.

The events of this past week have left me feeling uncertain, and angry, and sad.  And a little fearful for the country.  And that’s saying something.  I’m a member of the duck-and-cover generation, a full-blooded cold war baby.

We knew exactly what posture to assume beneath our school desks when the sound of a siren indicated that a nuclear missile was approaching.  We knew that the Russians were eager to “bury us”, that Castro blinked first, that our heroes seemed destined to be assassinated, and in those first days, when radioactivity was rampant, the water in the body of your toilet would still be safe to drink for a while.

Not a childhood conducive to security, lol, but we survived it all.  But I have to wonder about now.  Now, when so many people seem to have so many reasons they deem legitimate to strike out at our system—by harming the innocents.

9/11.  Shoe bombs.  Children massacred.  Events made to promote brotherhood and a common good feeling.  Nothing’s too extreme anymore, and there is no safe place.  I find myself watching in fascination, and wondering how we’re supposed to survive.  I looked at the flags outside the post office flying at half-staff on Friday, and I swear I couldn’t remember which disaster it was for.

I don’t have any solutions.  But this was heavy on my mind.  I’m supposing each generation will have to be that much tougher, to stand with their principles and belief in country.

At least, I hope they can.  Because I don’t think I can fit under those damn desks anymore…

S  P  R  I  N  G.

At last!!!!

I know how overly-dramatic that sounds, lol.  Yes, we’ve managed to make the transition into another season, as we do three to four times a year.  Each season has its good and not-so-good points; it’s just a matter of personal preference to choose a favorite.

Unless, of course, you live in what  is, meteorologically one of the cloudiest cities in the U.S. under NORMAL conditions.  So that in winter there are only two colors available to the cold, weary eye: gray and white.  And the wind comes off the lake in sharp, merciless waves, dumping snow over a cringing city for far more than the four or so months a season should claim.

So when I sing in celebration of SPRING—you’ll have to forgive me.

And right now I can ignore the less-than-perfect aspects of SPRING.  Yes, I’ll slowly become aware of the frequent thunderstorms that lead to the even more frequent power outages.  Or the return of worms, snails, and ants to the land of the living.  Or the high humidity leading to the zomigod bad hair days.  Rising rivers.  Tornado warnings.  Insect bites.  By the end of spring I’ll have a list nearly as long as winter’s.  But the complaints will be gentler.  Bearable, as once again we can look back and marvel at making it through the bitterness.

Never mind that the temps here are still in the forties.  There is hope, along with the ionization in the air.  Maybe even inspiration for delving back into the writing.  So that just saying the words makes me want to smile.  And I thought I’d share them with my friends.

HAPPY SPRING, EVERYONE!!

They say that everything is fodder for the artist.

Every sight, sound, and impression.  From the glee of childhood to the angst of adolescence, the first romantic pangs, and the stirrings of mortality.

We use them all in our work.  For some who may not be extroverts by nature it’s the primary way of expressing those feelings.

We even use the people we know, those who’ve fallen into the path of the pen and become inhabitants of our other-worldbuilding.

And let’s face it.  We even use the people we DON’T know.  Especially when they make themselves character or quote-worthy, intentionally or not.

Some time ago an old friend and I found ourselves at a rather busy little restaurant, waiting, inevitably, to be served.  It was still early in the evening and the food was worth the wait, so I didn’t mind.

At least, until I noticed one of the customers monopolizing the time of one of the waitresses.

He was a fair looker, just approaching middle-age and dressed to the nines, obviously affluent.  The lady with him was, I thought, lovely.  Somewhere in her mid-thirties, I thought, and also impeccably dressed, she had shining black hair swept back from a striking face, and exuded a calmness that made me want to take lessons.

Because her dinner companion had been flirting with their waitress for a good ten minutes.  And even if we hadn’t been waiting for service, it was bad form all the way around.

When he finally—FINALLY—let the girl escape (and I do mean girl…she couldn’t have been out of her teens), he turned his attention back to his partner, who was quietly sipping her drink and, after a few silent moments asked if anything was wrong.

“It was just an idea I had.  A silly thought,” she said easily.  I was sitting right behind her and  couldn’t help overhearing that perfectly cultured voice.  “But it seems to me that you might not want to proposition young ladies in front of the woman who gives you blow jobs.”

Is this line going to find its way into one of my stories somewhere, at some time or another?

You betcha.

Am I going to feel guilty about it?

Um…     

How much of your real life (or that of other people) has found its way into your stories?

And have you ever felt a little guilty about it, whatever form it takes?