Another Brick

in the wall. - Pink Floyd

At left, a generous un-copyrighted photo from wikicommons.

So many courses.

The mason is my hero building the wall brick by brick. I'm grinding scene by scene just like everybody else.

I had a discussion today with a writing friend about one of his relatives - also a writer - who minded a number of familial relationships for a book. Some of the relatives are none too pleased.

I'm of the Saul Bellow camp. I betray every personal relationship for fiction. I have more friends between the covers of books that I will ever have in person. Is it fair of me to mine personal - even intimate - experiences for details which find themselves into my stories? Probably not. Do I care? Short of libeling anyone with falsehoods, no.

You rope an English Sheepdog as an amusing feat of cowboy legerdemain, it's going in my story.

I feel more sorrow for those folks I have known who did nothing of note to incite me to remember them in prose.

I'm reminded of the line from a T. Bone Burnett song:

someone stole my identity and I feel sorry for them.

Great line. My best lines of the week?

Needs revising.