Madam Philomena said this would be a very introspective month for me, and it has been.
Last night I watched Angel Falls, based on Nora’s book. I thought it was pretty good, actually, and although the director hit you over the head at least four dozen times with schizoid flashbacks (we get it, we get it), it got me to thinking why I like Nora’s characters, even the very cliched ones. Baggage, depth, vulnerabilities, often out of their element, always having to dig deep for some inner strength.
Then I thought about how sucky a writer I am. Then I got over that, and starting thinking about why I like to write.
It’s a bit like self-analysis. I’ve written my family in many stories, although no one could possibly recognize themselves. Damage and redemption are themes I love, along with a dash of divinity. I care less and less about the romance and more about the inner journeys, especially of the males. I don’t know why, perhaps it’s a hidden attempt to rewrite my own psychological history, the story of my family (it’s probably no coincidence I went back to some genealogical research recently).
What’s the point of this? No freaking clue, except that I think I found a good hobby. I never was good at keeping a journal, but I wonder now if that’s what I’ve really been doing the last few years, only shared it in ebook and trade formats.