clues at the scene

clues at the scene

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Like Poppies ...

At left, poppy field in Turkey as photographed by Bernard Gagnon and hosted on wikicommons. Bernard allows its use here for only the attribution.

Kate Bush has a line in a song which I frequently play "Like poppies ..."  from the song "And Dream of Sheep." I find Kate Bush's lyrical qualities superb but part of that is due to the equipment I have and how her voice is reproduced.

I have a buddy who undergoes serious back surgery tomorrow. Opiates in the near future. I've lost one buddy to an addicted speech-slurred uselessness to back surgery and so I have concerns about Mike.

I haven't written much about drugs because the outcomes seem short-circuited to me. I knew several folks in the cocaine boom and the end was short and predictable in each case. I'm not sure I can write a story involving the recreational use of serious controlled substances that would hold a reader's attention.

Beto Unit.

If you wonder what the first ring of Hell looks like, read about the Beto Unit for detention in Texas.

I'm doing a re-write. I'm paying special attention to the change in tempo of interactions between people in tense serious conversations. Say, conversations in a room with the local sheriff.

Keep your powder dry and try walking a little more from now on. It helps the back.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Broken Angels

At left, copyright-free image of stone angel hosted on wikicommons as photographed by Roland Geider at the St. Peter and St. Paul cathedral (uncertain which one ... does not appear to be in St. Petersburg).

I'm finding the theme of broken angels - those who would do good but whose natures lead them from that end - to be quite compelling lately.

I'm drawn to the "incidentally bad"  which is to say those who normally do good but in an instance of crisis make the choice that then spirals beyond their control.

I hope your writing is taking you down the darker alleys of the human psyche. I've found my niche in rural noir. I've found my people.

Back to the ink.

I hope your fingers remained stained the darkest black and your fountain pens flow smoothly.

Watch the neighbors. They're not who you think they are.