Son of Mann

Well, I watched "The Terminal" tonight and, as usual, it got me thinking. Fortunately on more positive thoughts than last Friday (although the existentialist aspect was quite prevalent, what with the alienation and confusion; the end result would have been much more inspiring if it didn't seem like the characters who befriended the main weren't so... nice. It was almost illogical, so it wasn't as believable. Anyway...). I, once again, was moved because, as I've mentioned before, I am really a little girl. Or emphatic. Or both.

Anyway, once again I was stirred by the desire to make something moving, and, overlooking my novel, I found it insufficient a device. To create beauty, something powerful that "tugs on one's heartstrings", I think you need a vision. A complete vision, a larger vision. I deal with details. I read word by word, not paragraph by paragraph. I don't see a painting all at once, I have to focus. And the focusing takes away from the effect. I think. I don't know. Maybe it's a justification of my poor writing or lackluster ideas. The execution, perhaps. As usual, your guess is as good as mine.

But I've decided it's ok for this effort not to be spectacular. I have a plan. Instead of a singular novel, I want to create a trilogy. "Dear sweet mother of inservice days, why is he taking on MORE work!?" you cry. Well, it's not immediate. I want to write this novel when I'm 18, fresh out of adolescence with little perspective, lots of uncertainty, and quite a bit of stress. I want to see how I progress. The next milestone in one's life seems to be 40. At 40 you're "over the hill" which, oddly, just occurred to me tonight that "over the hill" refers to one's life expectancy. At 40, half of your life is through. You're coasting downhill from this point forward. That's why it's so depressing. So 40 will be a good age. Then I want to write my last novel at 80. If I live that long, and judging by current habits of self preservation, I'll be lucky to make it to 40. We'll see. If I make it to 80, I want to write the third in the trilogy. The first about Avery Mann. The second about his son. The third about his son. Ironic, because at that point I may have grandchildren of my own. It's an impossible distance and an idea that I'm likely to forget in a month. 22 years til the next installment? It sounds impossible. Here's to a dream, though. No matter the result, it's an effort worth undertaking. Think of the result. Even if just one of my descendants reads them... my legacy, perhaps. One I find perfectly suitable. You'll have to remind me at our high school reunion years from now.

I'm crazy. But a harmless crazy. For now... check back with me after half my life's over and we'll see. Until then... Cheers!