Returning to Writing

My husband and one of our best friends Derek went to the Lovecraft Film Festival this weekend. We took a tour through Powells (world's best book store), and I got cold sweats in the fiction section.

I took a stab at writing comics some long time ago, but was missing a key ingredient for the genre. Why, I asked Derek, would a writer be born without an imagination?

Nonsense, says Derek.

But no, compared to Derek and David, I don't have the library of cultural mythical references in my head. I wasn't allowed access to that sort of thing as a child, so I never developed the habit for fancy.

It's isn't that my imagination isn't full of musings, observations, wonderings and wanderings - but I seem to notice the small things: gestures, expressions, language, currents of culture three generations back.

I notice hands.

All my life I have found the world a wonderous, marvelous, terrifying, hopeful, constantly surprising place. I love, love, love an imaginative yarn - but never myself found the need to wander outside the world I knew to find things to occupy my mind.

For a long, quiet time now, I rather thought that there wasn't anyone other than myself interested in these observations.

Derek runs a podcast radio studio. Several of the features are up and running, more in the pipeline.

And, apparently, the flier features a noir detective series with a psychological twist -- mostly taken from short stories out of my trunk.

Yep.

Sneaky way to set a fire under my butt.

Can't disappoint a friend now, can I?

We'll see.

I'll keep you ...uh ... posted.