My apartment building put in a new thermostat to control my AC and heating, but in order to do it right, I had to move a couple of book cases. Doing so made me see just how much crap I'd accumulated without thinking, so I'm digging through and pulling out books I've read and don't want to read, again; and papers I don't need; and journals and pamphlets I've no more use for...and junk in general. So that's been my last couple of days -- sorting and shredding things that need not be known.
I've already got 2 bags of shredding and I'm maybe 25% of the way through. I did that as I watched a couple more episodes of Midsomer Murders...just to watch Nick Hendrix. At least, that's how I justified not writing. I need my place back in a semblance of order by Sunday, because I'm spending all next week in Oakland and do not want to come back to it.
I finally caught a glimpse of why I'm fixated on Nick -- he reminds me of Clive Owen, like from when he was in Croupier and that BMW series of adverts called The Driver....and Gosford Park. Mr. Hendrix hasn't half the intensity of Mr. Owen, but looks-wise...they could be brothers...or father and son...and it feeds my fantasies.
I never know why I get attracted to a man. Someone you'd think would be a gay man's dream might not grab me in any way. Hugh Grant, for example; he's nice-looking but not for me. Same for Colin Firth. And Colin Farrell doesn't even begin to interest me while Aiden Turner stops me cold when I see him.
Henry Cavill would be an obvious choice for anyone to be attracted to, and he is gorgeous, but Russell Tovey is not conventionally handsome, yet I'd chose him over Henry in a heartbeat. It's weird.
But it's the same with a story, actually. I can work on a script and love it and the characters, but sometimes it stops on me. Completely. Won't let me go one step farther and I have no idea why except it just no longer grabs me, and no matter what I try, I can't re-engage.
That's why I feel so strongly about Place of Safety. I've worked on it in fits and starts over years...hell, decades, now...but get right back into it and love what's happening in it and how the characters are interacting...until I get scared of what I'm trying, again, and freak out and have to take some time to regain my composure. But I'll never let go because it's a story I need to tell...and I really do need to get over my childish hesitation about it. Which I am...in fits and starts. So I guess I'll keep going till it's done or I'm dead.
And at the rate I'm going, this process may continue for another decade.
I never know why I get attracted to a man. Someone you'd think would be a gay man's dream might not grab me in any way. Hugh Grant, for example; he's nice-looking but not for me. Same for Colin Firth. And Colin Farrell doesn't even begin to interest me while Aiden Turner stops me cold when I see him.
Henry Cavill would be an obvious choice for anyone to be attracted to, and he is gorgeous, but Russell Tovey is not conventionally handsome, yet I'd chose him over Henry in a heartbeat. It's weird.
But it's the same with a story, actually. I can work on a script and love it and the characters, but sometimes it stops on me. Completely. Won't let me go one step farther and I have no idea why except it just no longer grabs me, and no matter what I try, I can't re-engage.
That's why I feel so strongly about Place of Safety. I've worked on it in fits and starts over years...hell, decades, now...but get right back into it and love what's happening in it and how the characters are interacting...until I get scared of what I'm trying, again, and freak out and have to take some time to regain my composure. But I'll never let go because it's a story I need to tell...and I really do need to get over my childish hesitation about it. Which I am...in fits and starts. So I guess I'll keep going till it's done or I'm dead.
And at the rate I'm going, this process may continue for another decade.
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