Well, it’s true.
Tuesday’s are just there to keep Mondays and Wednesdays from bumping into each other. It’s a buffer day.
I’m back in Tennessee after my short stint in South Carolina with mi familia. Each time I drive that direction, I experience two things. First, I fall a little bit more into infatuation with the area around Asheville, North Carolina. Mountains, mist, liberal bumper stickers, what’s not to love? Second, I spend about two hours of pointless, hair pulling time parked in bumper-to-bumper traffic due to some semi that plowed a poor, helpless passenger vehicle into oblivion. In fact, out of the four times I have gone to or fro, THREE of them include such an experience. I’m beginning to think that my fear of truckers is more rational than not.
I didn’t do any writing this weekend, except in my head. I tend to do that a lot–if there’s something I’m thinking about, I sort of categorize it into possible writing. I was with my grandma this weekend, and it involved a lot of reminiscing about my mom’s life, my grandma’s life, all of her paintings and pictures that hang on her walls. Made me think a bit. I’ve missed being near family. Even if I don’t agree with their politics or religion, there’s a certain amount of belonging that comes with being near them that you just can’t find anywhere else. I suppose I’m lucky.
I’m plunging back into Primeval this week, hoping to finish her up and move on to Anna MacPherson’s segment of the story. We will, of course, revisit Sarah often, but the next section is mostly Anna’s. My characters are whispering to me, trying to get my attention so they can have their stories told. They do that sometimes. I try my best to find a moment for them, just to listen, to see what they have to say. Some of them are desperate–I suppose in their world, it IS sort of vital for their stories to be out there. Here, the world will keep turning in spite of them.
Yes, all writers are inflicted with multiple personalities. It happens to the best of us. And the most mediocre. I’m not entirely clear on where I stand on that glorious spectrum. Time will tell.
I’m thinking today about death. Cancer, specifically. I’ve known so many people who were taken away by it. Fewer who fought it and won. One just yesterday who succumbed after a long battle. I didn’t know him, but he was the boyfriend of a colleague. It was melanoma, just like the cancer that took my beloved, dear friend last summer around this time. Sometimes it seems so very senseless. It usually does. How do you deal? What do you do? I’ve noticed in writing that characters either cry a long time and act subdued for months, or they do something crazy. People cope with grief so differently. In my experience, I remember feeling fine when I thought I shouldn’t. Having thoughts I thought I shouldn’t. Being okay, and then suddenly bursting into tears.
On that note, I’ll end with something that has always struck me as exactly the problem when it comes to dealing with death. It’s from Buffy, in the episode where Buffy’s mom dies of an aneurysm.
To the mystery of death, which we’ll never figure out until we go through it. Maybe not even then.
Anya: But I don’t understand! I don’t understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she’s, there’s just a body, and I don’t understand why she just can’t get back in it and not be dead anymore! It’s stupid! It’s mortal and stupid! And, and Xander’s crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, ever, and she’ll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.
Willow (after a long pause): We don’t know… how it works… why.
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