So. Writing is a challenge.
For those who think oh, it’s nothing to write some of these stories, books, and screenplays … I mean, they’re just making it up, right? let me share something with you.
That’s just the very first step to a good story, book, or screenplay. It’s easy to tell when that’s where the writer stopped working.
I mentioned I’m taking this writing course and I must admit, while I understood many of the indicated concepts, I have never executed them well. Okay, maybe a couple times, by accident, but as I’m working through the lessons, I get it. To wit: I’ve also invested in two additional pieces of software — one for story line and another for character development. That’s on top of my scriptwriting software and the program I use to put together stories and novels.
I’ve opened both, to great fanfares of ‘Oooh!’ and ‘Aaahhh!’ but haven’t had time to really dig into either one.
But I’ve got them, so I’m well on my way to crafting more complex characters and story lines.
In between all that, and work, and dogs, and a large cat, and another human, and gophers (yes, I’ve been fighting gophers — another story for another time), I’ve been soaking up lots of movies and shows. I need to see the outcomes — good and bad — of technique.
I watched the third season of a Turkish series on Netflix called ‘The Gift’. No spoilers, but one of the main points was that with dreams, there are infinite possibilities.
My mother recently celebrated a birthday. Also, 20 June was Father’s Day. I am reminded of the passage of time. It’s been nearly 27 years since my father was killed. In three years, I’ll be the same age he was, should I live to see it.
I think of how different things could have been if my dad hadn’t died then. I imagine, had he and I better developed our relationship, how I might have been able to go to him for protection. I envision him, saving me from so many years of being in an abusive situation. I see him being happy for me when I remarried. I think of and imagine him with my son, teaching him about music and chores and cars and machinery, all the things he taught me. I look at my hands, those fingers with the bends in them like his; in my mind’s eye, I see him and my son, bent over a car engine, a driveway full of scrap yard parts they’d salvaged.
I cry for what wasn’t. I grieve what could have been . My heart breaks for what was missed and I pray that somewhere, some place in time, the impossible is happening.
And if it’s not, I can make some semblance of that some place in my stories.
I pray to do it well.