When our life is over, we’re dead. What were we before we were born? Assuming that the nothingness after life is the same as the nothingness before life, were we dead before? If so, doesn’t that make us zombies, of a sort? The Un-undead?
Being a writer is a bit like being a super hero. There is one’s secret “real life” and writing lair. Then there is one’s public front, sometimes with a pen name. It’s lonely, mostly solitary work. It takes a special person to pull it off, and buckets of blood, sweat, and tears. Fans always want more, are highly critical, and more often than not, one’s best is only good enough for a moment.
(if only the super powers . . .)
Still. Worth it.
(eh . . . maybe)
A friend texted she’s finally seen Captain Marvel. This is significant because I’m “The Movie Guy.” Always there opening weekend and there’s something opening EVERY weekend. But since July 2018 I’ve been watching at home, that is, waiting for the new releases to be available for rent.
Her text saddened me. I’m going to be several months out of step. Worse still, with all the Summer blockbusters coming I’m going to have to remove myself from the group texts to avoid spoilers. I’ll be an outsider looking in at the party.
Then, as if in my own teen-coming-of-age rom-com, the realization hit me: there’s a whole world out here I’m missing being the creepy peeping Tom.
(or we can just go to the damned movies again, it’s not THAT expensive.)
Eh. . . Maybe.