"Women in convertibles are like low hanging fruit."-Marg Helgenberger on CSI
So what was the deal with George Eades and Jorja Fox? Just this. Somebody snail mailed, somebody overslept, somebody overreacted. I’ve watched all three CSIs, but obviously the best writers are on the original one. Not only are the characters on 'Miami' and 'New York' flat, but so is the dialogue.
I’m getting paid for a little Santa Arrival script I wrote for the PG County Mall, which is no longer being called the PG County Mall but will be anyway, so I’m on a bit of a kick; go figure.
This morning, Hawk and I discuss Shakespeare. In the shower. ‘S’okay, we’ve been married a long time. Hawk maintains that The Bard was a hack, which I do not argue, but in the English language, there’s no one credited with a more influential body of work. Or with being more influence on our daily speech. He had a knack with words. Hawk, however, has a knack with a loofah. Mmmmm.
What I’m reading now is a fascinating blend of two of my favorite things: scent and language. It’s called Perfume, and the author, Patrick Suskind, (whose name includes an umlaut , so please imagine it, because I haven’t figured out how to do an umlaut ), writes in lush language about a man who lives by his nose. It was published in 1985, in German, and is set in France during the seventeensomethings. This book is at least twelve different kinds of lush. Amazing, really. Good story, rich narrative and a main character who is compelling but in no way loveable. Terrific stuff- I’m reining myself in so as not to race through it, because then I’ll be done with it and that always makes me so very sad, to be done with a book I’ve been enjoying.
However, that would (maybe) force me to work on Posthumous Café. I’m well and truly stuck. I think I have to write around and around the stuck part until it works itself loose, like the snarls in my hair. What I really want is to go hang out at Ellen’s place and chainsmoke with a beer close by while I write longhand. I’ve been promising myself…..the next time someone offers to take the weasels off my hands, that’s precisely what I shall do. I’d hoped that NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month would push me into completing this pup by month’s end, but no such luck. Ah, well. Maybe for New Year’s I’ll have it finished.
So I resolve, so it shall be done.