I’m not a fan of multiple coincidences. It boggles my suspension of disbelief, and contrary to how I may appear with my scoffing at magic/miracles, etc., I really am quite willing to S my B for a book or a movie. I have no issue with magic or the supernatural if it’s written well ~ I’ve loved a lot of silly books and movies that hinge on the most ridiculous of premises. Because entertainment!
I was up early today (like crazy early) and watched a movie. I have found that if I wake in the middle of the night with a headache and go back to sleep, I will be guaranteed a migraine at 6AM, but if I get up, take aspirin, drink water or cola, I can sometimes get rid of it. Naturally, I’ll be exhausted by mid-afternoon, oh well. The movie I watched was In Lieu of Flowers, sort of a romcom, but mostly about the grief process after a romantic partner has died or whatever.
The protags, Eric and Rachel, meet at a grief-support group. OK. But then it turns out Eric’s doctor is Rachel’s father. This is totally unnecessary. But even worse is when E&R encounter each other in the waiting room. Think about that. How many doctors there are and how many patients each doctor has. What are the odds, IN NEW YORK CITY, of you and your romantic interest having the same doc? Then the odds of you both having appts on the same day about the same time? Boggle.
Of course, there’s the usual stupid thing of having people with ordinary jobs in NYC somehow managing to live in fabulous places. I suppose Rachel, a second grade teacher, has doctor-dad subsidizing her BEACH HOUSE, but we never get the scoop on Eric’s financial sitch. Whatever. It was just a fluff movie. For a supposedly broken person, Rachel always manages to look continually gorgeous and smile at every strange man, even a drunk on the subway.
I understand that everything can’t be a masterpiece. It’s fine. I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately. Or should I say starting them. I don’t finish most. I did get to the end of In Lieu because I had nothing else to do.
Writing fiction? Seems unfathomable to me these days, like chasing a blow-up raft that’s floated out to sea. I sort of still see it bobbing out there, but it’s so far away, and I’m tired. I write some poetry though because that’s all language and emotion. I don’t have to grind out sentences and dialog and worry about where it’s going and the point of it all.
[Written in 2015 and have written more fiction since.]
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