...to take a break from blogging, among other things.
I have so little to add to the national, local, or bloggish scene, so I'm thinking I'll just be quiet for a while.
It is time for me to get focused on my next Clari Drake mystery. In fact focus is the wrong word. Not liking what I've already written, I need to change course and find another way to say things.
So, if I have something of import to blog, I'll post. Otherwise, I see no point in boring the world (however small) with inane drivel.
Be well my friends. Enjoy the summer. The sky is foggy right now, but I just know there is some "clarity" ahead.
It's official. We're hooked. I guess it took a few weeks of laying low with a virus for us to finally rent The Wire. As you may recall me mentioning, we don't have cable in our house. It took us years to watch The Sopranos, and it was years after everyone else had. Rome didn't take us as long, but it was long after everyone else had mourned the loss of that two-season orgy.
But okay, we've finally landed on Planet Bawlmore...and we are out of our minds addicted. Hook, line, and sinker hooked. And we're only half way into Season Two. We cannot believe that D'Angelo is gone. My husband swears it's a hoax and he's being hidden somewhere. I am fascinated with my fascination with Omar. How is it that I am actually glad to see him on screen and kicking ass? Avon does not move me in the slightest. And I smell a stinker in Stinger Bell. Of course Wallace broke both our hearts. And all the cops? Damn, don't get me started.
This right here is all the lesson in fiction writing any fiction writer needs. What makes a guy who robs drug dealers sympathetic? Why do we root for D and not for Pooh? Why do we pivot on some pathos and have no sympathy for another sad sack? I scratch my Shingles scars daily pondering these questions and more. But one thing I do know is that fiction loves conflict. Fiction needs complexity and things need to get worse and worse, or the Novaks won't keep driving back to the local (and fabulous) video store, plunking S2 D3 down on the counter, and tapping nervously until the woman returns from the stacks and chuckles as she slides our next fix into our trembling hands (I'll take two red tops please).
For the love of God, don't tell me what happens. But do chime in if you've done the time on this show.