The Good With The Bad
Good news: Maureen McHugh's Hodgkin's has NOT returned! Commence with the Peanuts happy dance wherever you presently are.
Bad news: Hall of Famer Kirby Puckett has passed away at 45.
If only Ground Zero could be like this.
Through Maureen's blog I discovered there is another Darby who writes. I admit it. I've been cloning myself.
I watched the Oscars last night, despite having seen only one of the films nominated (owing to a combination of our local theater being closed, and those little films never coming here anyway -- well, Capote is playing here right now). I liked George Clooney's pride at not being in the mainstream, but I didn't like the Academy's making a darling of Brokeback Mountain only to give the Best Picture to Crash, the only film I'd seen, which despite it's pedigree is undeserving. I think it will be remembered more in the future as the first Best Picture shot in HD video -- yep, it was -- than a piece of art that reflects the times it was made in.
I wrote four pages in the novel last night. 127, now. Every time I sit down with it, it's a struggle, but nevertheless I manage to eke out something. I found myself going through an old book by Tom Gunning on the films of Fritz Lang, submerging once again into the stark isolation and paranoia of those beautiful films, searching for inspiration. This novel contains elements of noir, both the literary and cinema styles, plays with some of the tropes, like the lone anti-hero and the femme fatale (in this case, the same person), while at the same time it plays with sci-fi tropes in a way I hope (and pray) is somehow unique. We'll see. I also began a new short story, which feels very differet from the others I've written; it certainly wants to lead me away from the safe and familiar.
Bad news: Hall of Famer Kirby Puckett has passed away at 45.
If only Ground Zero could be like this.
Through Maureen's blog I discovered there is another Darby who writes. I admit it. I've been cloning myself.
I watched the Oscars last night, despite having seen only one of the films nominated (owing to a combination of our local theater being closed, and those little films never coming here anyway -- well, Capote is playing here right now). I liked George Clooney's pride at not being in the mainstream, but I didn't like the Academy's making a darling of Brokeback Mountain only to give the Best Picture to Crash, the only film I'd seen, which despite it's pedigree is undeserving. I think it will be remembered more in the future as the first Best Picture shot in HD video -- yep, it was -- than a piece of art that reflects the times it was made in.
I wrote four pages in the novel last night. 127, now. Every time I sit down with it, it's a struggle, but nevertheless I manage to eke out something. I found myself going through an old book by Tom Gunning on the films of Fritz Lang, submerging once again into the stark isolation and paranoia of those beautiful films, searching for inspiration. This novel contains elements of noir, both the literary and cinema styles, plays with some of the tropes, like the lone anti-hero and the femme fatale (in this case, the same person), while at the same time it plays with sci-fi tropes in a way I hope (and pray) is somehow unique. We'll see. I also began a new short story, which feels very differet from the others I've written; it certainly wants to lead me away from the safe and familiar.
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And the Darby's shall inherit the earth.