A friend writes:
Creative non-fiction - which is autobiographical, but
is always dangerous because the images and characters
are so present, so vivid, that when I write I take a
lot for granted - forgetting that the reader cannot
see what I see.
That shower of dust particles dancing in that lazy afternoon light, sepia tinted with gold The timbre of voices, crystal, as they rose in unison, tackling mundane scales, now supportive, now showing off.
The fine wrinkle lines on the corners of my eyes and the laugh lines when I look in the mirror and see what I want to see.
The intricate needle point of a memory that recalls events from five decades ago, but not as much last week, or that important letter in today’s mail.
How could you ever see that?
Charade. A 1963 thriller. Audrey Hepburn, perfect, lovely clothes, and they all stay on. A completely impressive Cary Grant. Witty, laugh a minute. The dialogues are so crisp you couldn’t pare them if you tried. Yes, we finally watched this last night.