Food for Thought

A funeral is the oddest sort of family reunion that could possibly be. Particularly when you're the middle wife. Although the first wife wasn't there. In fact, I have just now decided that The Middle Wife shall be the title of my next novel. Shades of being the middle child. But without the rivalry. At least as far as I was concerned. But, hey, this is fiction so I can rivalry the crap out of the wives if I want. Like this actual published writer told me years ago, when I asked him about character development and if his friends and family members recognized themselves in his books. He laughed. A fellow author who was speaking along with him is often featured as a very minor character in his books, and vice versa. They enjoy reading each other's crime novels just to see what sort of smarmy low life they have cast each other as. On a more serious note, he said that if writers waited for everyone to die who has inspired them character-wise, no one would ever get around to getting published. He considers the people that he knows or strangers he observes plus his imagination to be the starter dough. Kept in the fridge in the dark to stew and recombine. The resultant bread that is rendered from this starter dough is his own, a very different creature indeed. Rarely do people possess the insight and level of self awareness to recognize themselves anyway, so you're usually safe. Aside from that, I figure everyone fancies themselves the tragic hero or femme fatale. At least I do. If you don't get to be the leading lady or the main man in your own head, what's the point. Pardon me while I get ready for my close-up.