Sunday, July 05, 2015
I got a paper cut a few days ago. Ouch. Bled like a fury. I bandaged my wound and jokingly told my husband it would probably work its way off in the night and I'd bleed to death.
He said, "How's that going to look when the cops come and I'm all covered in your blood?" [Some couples talk dirty; we talk morbid.]
I told him it happens all the time in movies and television -- someone wakes up blood-splattered next to a dead body, and has no memory of how it happened. "You'd get off," I said. "Think of the great movie potential. I want Clooney to play your part. Or Johnny Depp."
I'm still mulling over actresses to play me. Have to have an Oscar winner, of course, as this movie has Academy Award written all over it. In fact, I'll write the screenplay myself, and the follow up novel. The action figures alone would net us a fortune!
Then my husband, practical guy that he is, brought my fantasy to a fall-in-the-muck end. "How are you going to do all that when you're dead?"
Well, you have to laugh about some things, otherwise we'd all be crying.
Speaking of writing about murder and death... I began a novel of romantic suspense a few years ago because I had a great opening premise and some interesting characters. Haven't gone back to it in years. But the other day I read the first part and mysteriously [magically?] the rest of the story fell into place. I have the ending, a nifty one if I say so myself, and most of the middle which just needs to be padded a bit.
This will be waiting for me when I get done Fortune. [As will oh, five or six others.]