Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Rewrite Rhett capter one...thanks Madina! 07, 2005

The cotton looked flung and scattered, a millennium of trashy discarded powder puffs, clinging to woody stalks and weedy edges of the late October fields. A variegated blanket of dirty white, rotten green, and rusty brown lay in folds across rolling hills, between emerald green piney woods, covering the rich, red Georgia earth -- as if to keep it warm.
In the pre-dawn darkness, unseasonably cold and vicious air crept in from the north and west. A Heavy dew and dampness of the night turned into hoarfrost covering the fields of cotton. The brown grass of the yard and all the roofs of little houses, barns and out buildings on the plantation glistened. A warm and bright sun was rising in a vividly blue and clear sky. The frost was beginning to melt, and diamond dewdrops were sparkling in sunlight, shimmering on a multitude of spider webs in the cotton fields.
It was the proverbial,
“Frosty Dixie Morn”.

Rhett Butler stood alone on the veranda of the big house at Tara -- staring across the cotton fields. He was in a foul mood. He took the butt of a hand-rolled Cuban cigar out of his mouth, contemplated the rancid damp end he was unconsciously chewing, and threw the offensive thing into the grass.
“Damned bitter cigar!”
As he continued to gaze across the cotton fields, he continued to curse.
“Dammed cotton! Damn this farm! Damn that Scar…”
Rhett’s damming was interrupted by a familiar voice. A voice heavy with accent and gentle sarcasm,
“Why Captain Butler, how you do carry on! Is everything and everybody in Georgia, to be damned this fine October morning?”
The voice sounded so real, and close, that he was somewhat startled. However, he did not look around because the person of that voice was dead, and he did not believe in ghosts or spirits of any kind. Rhett Butler did not, and would not, believe in anything that he could not see, touch, taste or smell. Nevertheless, ironically, the sound of that voice had a soothing effect on his spirit. He leaned against a marbled column as bittersweet memories began to vie for his conscience attention. He quickly suppressed those thoughts,
“Damned the past.”
However, his sarcastic pirate’s grin wrinkled the corner of his mouth and his dark eyes sparkled. At fifty years of age, most women agreed, he was still a handsome and viral man. Those scars and lines that showed gave him a rugged, substantial look. Those scars unseen gave his eyes that worldly look of confidence most women find comforting -- even if they do not want to admit it.
He responded to that ghostly voice from the past with his own gentle sarcasm, saying aloud,
“Well, my dear Miss Melanie, some things just need to be dammed.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a fresh Cuban. He ceremoniously cut and lit the aromatic tobacco. Taking a long drag, he enjoyed the warm smoke, before exhaling a large vaporous cloud into the cold morning air. Once again, he contemplated the cotton, trying to forget the most persistent ghosts of his past.
“What is over and done, is over and done, period, end of story.”
That was Rhett’s motto. Many times mottos, easy to say, are difficult to keep.

A stranger standing there could not see the things a native easily sees in the cotton -- blood, sweat, and tears. No stranger could see the love and hate, hope and despair of countless generations of people, The ghosts of men and women, black and white and creamy (all shades of color) high born, lowborn, and out born, Men and women, cads and harlots, bimbos and bastards, strong and weak, ignorant and proud – at times, blessedly stupid, Rich and poor masters and slaves, demigods and dirt-me -- and very human soul who ever made a living off king cotton.
No stranger can even imagine or begin to understand what a native knows in his guts and keeps in the very cracks of his bones, cotton is a little less than God is -- but higher than angels.
There is nothing in this world like cotton -- never will be. Cotton builds empires, and destroys them. Cotton is warmth, love, and the soft easy laughter of well-fed and educated people. Cotton is cold bitter disparity, embedded hatred, mournful groans of hunger and the wailings of unrighteousness and cruel ignorance. Cotton is wealth and prestigious life, poverty and deplorable death.
Cotton built the south, destroyed the south, and built it again. Generations of people (all kinds of people) live, love, hate and die, they come and they go but the cotton remains. Wool is rough, flax is trashy, and cotton is king.

“Cotton and arrogance.”
Rhett grumbled,
“All we ever had - all we still have. If it was up to me, I would burn the fields. Better than selling at a loss.
Edison invented the light bulb a year ago, illuminated the country, and the world, while the south is still the economic bastard of civilization.
Damn Yankees are always inventing something.” He chuckled and grinned cynically,
“Then they convince us all that we can not live without their new and wondrous contrivance. They sure know how to make money – and punish the South.”
Rhett was not worried about money. He was just as rich as the richest Hampton ever was. However, Tara’s acres of cotton were a glorious white waste, and it sickened him.
“If Scarlett was in her right mind, I could convince her to grow some good tobacco. That would be smart.”
Unfortunately, Scarlett was not, had not been for months - in her right mind.
Will Benteen was doing his best to run the plantation. A one-horse farmer, a cracker from Florida before the war, Will confided in Rhett,
“Forty acres an a mule - mor’ nuff for any cracker.”
Rhett grinned knowingly,
“That’s right. But, you married up in the world, my good man, and that means more responsibility.”
Will did not resent the truth. He smiled easily and looked him straight in the eye,
“Ya no I’d just a soon be poor.”
Rhett studied his weather worn, honest face. There was not a hint of hypocrisy in those washed out grey eyes. He sighed and chuckled,
“I know -- but -- Scarlett O’Hara will not allow anyone, kin to her, to be poor. You did marry her favorite sister.”
His sarcastic grin broadened at that comment -- they both laughed. Suellen and Scarlett fought like cats.
In both appearance and personality, Rhett and Will were as different as night and day. However, their brutal honesty was the same. Many resented that trait in Rhett but easily accepted it in Will – actually seeking his advice. Very few people had the courage to ask Rhett for anything. He had a way of nicely cutting the crap and exposing the truth – unpleasant for the average person.


No stranger standing there could see any of what Rhett saw in the cotton fields, no indeed. He did not really think about it. Did not have to think about it, all of that (and things unexplainable) were in his blood, his guts, and in the very marrow of his bones. In very fiber of his being, Rhett Butler was a true southerner.
Every true Southerner knows Cotton and the South are spiritually, physically (and in the Southern mind) mentally joined forever. God brought cotton and the South together - and no man can ever put them asunder. From springtime to harvest, from season to season, until the end of time, cotton and the good earth, and the people upon it – will remain.

Rhett heard a soft step behind him on the veranda and he smelled Scarlett’s favorite perfume. He turned around with his most charming smile - A smile that melted the hearts of weaker women. He found himself looking into cold, determined, emerald green eyes. Beautiful eyes -- starring him down over the barrel of a 45-caliber Colt pistol -- his very own pistol. He continued to smile, as his guts were churning and his mind was racing. He was in very real danger. The pistol was loaded, he knew because he had just cleaned and checked it earlier that morning, and he had locked it away, or he thought he had. He slipped his had into his pocket. His keys were gone.
When he placed his hand in his pocket, she responded by cocking the pistol and speaking in a calm icy voice,
“What ever you do sir, do not take your hand out of your pocket, unless you are ready to die.”

She as not three short steps away, just out of his reach. However, even out to twenty paces, she was a dammed good shot with a pistol. He knew that very well. Inwardly, Rhett was cursing himself for being a careless fool, but he kept smiling and spoke to her in his most reassuring and charming way,
“My dear Mrs. Butler, you would not want to shoot an innocent man.”

A she held her aim dead on his heart, she replied,
“I have never in my life met an innocent man. I know men, most all are the same, needing, demanding, groping. But you Yankees have a smell about you. A smell I don’t care for, like hate, and fear, and death.”

Her nostrils flared as she spoke, as if she could smell him as well as she could see him. Her eyes never blinked, and her hand remained steady as she held the pistol aimed at his chest,
“I love the smell of a man, one who comes up out of the field with the honest dirt and sweat of life and work upon him. I love the smell of a man, tobacco, leather and perhaps a little bourbon mingled with the lusty essence of a man. (She paused, remembering - then continued with venom) I love the smell of a man, but I cannot stand the stench of a chicken stealing Yankee. You Yankees have been here before. There is nothing left to steal, so just keep your hand in your pocket, turn around and march down those steps and off this place – NOW!
Rhett made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He reached out with his free hand and spoke to her kindly and calmly with what he hoped sounded like reassuring authority,

“Scarlett, darling -- let’s just have that gu…”

The loud crack of the pistol firing interrupted him. The bullet chipped a piece of marbled facade from the column that he was standing near and the sharp edge of the fragmented stone whacked Rhett on the side of the neck just behind and bellow his right ear leaving a nasty gash that begin to bleed immediately. He grabbed the wound with his free hand and cursed aloud. The spent shell ricocheted off the column and whined across the front yard toward the cotton field, and the jagged, bloody chunk of facade fell at Rhett’s feet. He did not take his other hand out of his pocket and he remained silent as he eyed his crazy wife,
“She is worse than her Father ever was. His insanity made him passive, rather harmless. This woman is completely unpredictable and obviously dangerous. But what a woman she is.”
He new very well, that she could have killed or maimed him for life. She hit exactly where she aimed. Even in her state of insane hatred, she had chosen to fire a warning. Close enough to do damage; much more damage than he knew at the time as a sharp one-inch sliver of the stone had pierced the right side of his throat just blow his jawbone. The point of that projectile was lodged in an arterial vein. He was very much in danger of bleeding to death.
Scarlett repeated her demand.
“Perhaps you did not hear me. I told you to leave. I suggest you do so quickly.”
Rhett backed slowly across the porch, keeping his eyes on her grim face, that look he had seen before – murderous.
She never wavered but held the pistol dead on his heart, inching forward as he moved backwards. When he reached the top of the steps, he reached down slowly, griped the wrought iron railing with his bloody hand, and began to back down. Removing his hand from the side of his neck released the pressure he was unconsciously applying to that sliver of stone stuck in his flesh, pricking that vein, and he began to bleed profusely. He was beginning to be lightheaded, he was loosing a lot of blood and he could feel the hot stickiness down the side of his neck. He was fighting to stay up.
When he reached the bottom, she was at the top, staring him down with those cool green eyes, the pistol still on target.
Her hair was dark and flowing with only the slightest hint of gray around her temples.
She wore a dark green velvet housecoat with ermine collar; he had bought for her in New York - because she had liked it so much. He remembered how she had looked then, when she wrapped it around herself laughing like a schoolgirl, telling him how much she loved him, that he spent too much money on her -- but she did need it to keep her warm in those cold Yankee hotels that he insisted on staying in.
He could not recall her ever looking more beautiful than she did now, standing there with his own pistol pointed at him. He saw her bare feet and he wondered if she was naked under the housecoat. The cold morning air did not make her shake at all.
A commotion of hurrying people poured out of the house, but Scarlett did not seem to notice. She was focused, and very determined.
Will Benteen was the first to arrive, limping rather quickly on his peg leg through the open
front door. He crossed the porch thumping and exclaiming in his south-cracker twang,
“What’en tar-nation ya’ll shoot’en at Miss Scarlett?”
When he got to the edge of the porch and saw the bleeding Rhett Butler, he froze and stared - speechless.
Suellen arrived next. When she saw the blood she drew a gasping breath, and true to her nature, she let out a scream that surely would wake everyone within a mile, who had not heard the pistol shot.
The scream brought Scarlett around to the real world. She looked with disdain at Suellen, who was white faced with horror - staring stupidly at the revolver in Scarlett’s hand. Scarlett looked at the pistol -- trying to remember. Why did she have it in her hand? She looked at Will who was looking at her with a mixture of pity, disbelief and concern in his washed out gray eyes. Pity would have normally angered Scarlett. She seemed confused -- then a look of remembrance came upon her face as she
looked unflinchingly into Will’s eyes and said, rather calmly,
“I’ve done committed murder…”

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Logos Perpetualis Propagatus

I have sailed down the face of the eternal tide to the river Styx. I have sacrificed the blood of goats and bullocks to the insatiable prophetic ghosts. They have shown me everything... from before the beginning to beyond the ending. We were once a race of gods... children of the great creator... the great I AM. But now we are cursed with that which is called SIN... everything that is not Faith. Now we are blind and def and dumb, with stammering lips and weakened minds, we can not recall that which is still eternal. Logos Perpetualis Propagatus. What we now see is mostly illusion... What we can not see is reality... The human odyssey is eternal... Life and Death are states of existence... each and every individual human being has the God given right to choose Life or Death... We who have chosen Life, will forever face the perils therein... Ithaca is a realm beyond the portals of heaven. Even though the lesser, and demonic gods contend... Sail on my friend... sail on my friend.

Stephen.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

X- File Review

X-File Review
I have never cheated on, or jilted, a lover. That is a fact - no matter what they say! I want it this way. If the commitment (I always require one, either verbal or written, and binding) is broken, My conscience requires that I remain guiltless. So far I have been successful. You can trust me, I would not lie about something that important to myself.
Another thing...my conscience is clear as to the number of lovers (one at a time) in my life - A couple more than Abraham and nine hundred and ninety something less than Salomon - is not scandalous at all to the majority of reasonable people. Those who have had less are probably jealous and those who have had more probably sneer at my romantic ineptitude.
All of this I know is not conducive to the advancement of my political career - which is at the moment grounded. This reminds me: I am not now, nor do I plan in the near future, to seek any political office including the Governorship of South Carolina. This is my official statement of with drawl from all races politic. I reserve the right to change my mind at a latter date than today and promise I will not do so tomorrow.
Now back to what I was saying about X's.
Whenever I am dumped by a lover as I always am - Incidental, old lovers like me are a lot like bath water...always thrown out with or without the baby - but as I was saying, when I am dumped, I go through several weeks (sometimes months) of bitter-sweet denial refusing to accepted the loss of love in my life. I actually believe this is healthy, a time of healing and gradual release of intimate awareness of the X.
I do not stalk, or otherwise harass, my X's but I do continue to write about them and use them for inspiration in my attempts to express human emotions - hopefully in an artistic way. I hope they have all forgiven me for this and they can find comfort in the fact that eventually I will find a new subject for inspiration and contemplation.
Here is an example of what I am trying to communicate; a quick little poem. those who always jilt will mostly find it sappy, those who are always jilted are for more likely to appreciate the sentiment. All of you people know in which camp you lie! (lay).

(see next entry "Only One Kiss")

Friday, July 15, 2005

Only One Kiss

Only one kiss to thrill me...
Only one kiss to bind me...
Only one kiss to fill me...
And in the darkness find me...

Only one kiss to love me...
Only one kiss to need me...
Only one kiss to touch me...
And in my hunger feed me...

Only one kiss Eliza...
Only one kiss to feel me...
Only one kiss amore'...
And in the silence kill me...

Stephen.

The Angel And The Highwayman

I am a highwayman... I am a peregrine...
And the soul of every sailor...
Whoever went to sea....

You are a lady... who needed a lover...
And this is why... El Papa...
Brought you to me...

I am a traveler... I am a wonderer...
One messenger of words...
Just earthly dust...

You are an angel... fallen from heaven...
With broken wings...
And mortal lust...

I am your brother... son of your Father...
A warrior poet...
Protector of the ring...

You are my sister... child of my Mother...
Passion are the waves of your fire...
De profundis... I sing...

Stephen.

Letter to Madena

My dearest Madena,
Thank you again for your in-sites and for taking time
to respond to my queries...
You are a good pal....
My father suffered a sever hart attack. His main
arterial vain collapsed on him while he was running a
weed-eater on his farm....he is 74....always been a
very strong man....but now....(thank God he
survived)....he must make many changes....that he will
not want to make....
Mom is 73.....but she is in good enough health to take
care of him so far....I have five younger sisters, and
one older, who are there to help also....in fact they
made it a point for me to know that they are in charge
of everything.....which is fine with me.....but I know
that this will wreck havoc on the Old Man's male
ego.....he believes, as do I....that men are not
supposed to show weakness of any kind publiclly or to
the family...especially to the women....it actually
scares the women (most of them) and makes them feel
quite uneasy. This is actually in the human Q
code....the quintessential source of all
humanity...the words that we....and all
existence....were created by...that original
mathematical, sequential, poetic and beautiful
language is still there...in the very core of our
human souls (mentally, physically, and spiritually)
the problem is....we only use a very small part....95%
is dormant..we truly have degenerated from our
original state of being....any one (Darwinist,
atheist, evolutionist, humanist...etc...etc...etc) who
does not recognize the truth of existence by master
design..IS NUTS!.....
sorry about that tangent of thought....guess I had to
get it off my chest!
Honey, I am not afraid of mortality.....or anything...
at this age....but I do repectfully fear
immortality...."what dreams may come to plague us
beyond this mortal coil"...(incidentally, how did
Shakespeare know, seven centuries ago, that humanity
was nothing but a mortal coil - DNA?)...I truly
believe that physical demise is a temporal state of
being....just as physical life is....AND here is the
rub.....nothing is lost....everything, all matter,
energy, space and time....will be
regenerated...at...and upon... the appointed time...
when time will no longer exist... all things being
eternal.....even my X-wives...imagine that.....
Actually I am kidding...I truly love all three of them
to death...Desiring for them the greater good....just
can't stand their company for very long at all....much
less for eternity..
I have herd it said that eternity is huge....but I
wonder what that would mean where time and distance
and divisions of separation are meaningless.....
Even Christ mentioned this in his last formal teaching
prayer....just after the obsrevance of the final,
eternal, Passover dinner...He prayed..."Keep these who
you have given me... one with me... as I am one with
you...Father!"...This is a phenomenal statement that
most people...esp. religious people...do not
understand at all...
anyway...I'll stop this rambling
I have given Eliza a ring....one that she picked out.
It is not the most expensive ring of its type....but
it is unique....white and yellow gold....very nicely
designed with a diamond cluster....
I told her that if she wanted an engagement ring, a
solitaire was more traditional...
She said, "This one I like... valinte amor ers tu...
(roughly translated - you, my very fine lover) but...
as to marriage.... I do not say yes... or no....but
only...wait and see."
She will be back in Honduras next week....and I will
be in Missouri visiting my Father.....and neither of
us know when we will get back to South Carolina.....
In fact...I have the gut feeling that if I seriously
pursue this...(her)...I must go to Honduras....which I
was planning to do anyway...it is a naturally
beautiful country...though politically, a mess...which
is why we began to communicate in the first
place.....she was teaching me Spanol...and I was (am
still) a serious student of her language and
culture....this affair decor...just seemed to happen
by natural design...
my Irish friend Pattie, who I still do not sleep with,
says - in her normal cynical way - "its a damn set-
up!"
She could be right.....BUT.....so what?....there is
always Rio!
And my Latino instructor has taught me very well
indeed!

Have you read my children's stories on line? I would
be flattered if you liked them well enough to read
them to those little minds of mush you a voluntarily
trying to gel into comprehension...
I am proud of you for this work you are doing.....it
is important....wish I could join you sometime.
If you check out the books for cabbages...
http://www.sunshinedixieland.com/Booksforcabbages.html
You may also want to check out Eliza's latest...
http://www.sunshinedixieland.com/eliza.html she is a
gifted natural poet in her own language...although she
struggles with English (so do I... as you know) and
she writes with a sensual honesty that I believe to be
important to the literature of the Americas in this
new century....
Your criticism would be welcomed...as a friend...as I
am her publisher...for now.
OK. that's about it for now.....
Hope you are doing well...and please send me something
good to read.....that you have sweat-ed, pro-fained,
and worked over.....
just kidding....send as little...or as much as you
can...however you came by it.
Always Yours,
Stephen

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Don Quixote de la Bryceville Florida tonto loco gringo!

Olga Eliza Matamoros Hampton,
On Saturday the sixteenth of July 2005 at 10:45 AM this will have been your name for one hundred and sixty-eight hours. Seven Days.
I know you believe you have married a Don Quixote de la Bryceville Florida tonto loco gringo!
Maybe you are right. BUT, I still want seven times seventy to the power of seven - days with you mi amor!!!! Which is a very long time - and a perfect number. This I pray to El Papa. I know he will hear and answer this prayer. How will he answer????
By His will alone; of this I have faith.
Your lover, friend, husband,
Stephen Wayne Hampton Sr.

Eliza mi amor,
God brought us together....of this I am sure....for how long? I do not know.... but I want forever....
If you are pleased to stay with me...and be my wife.... I will stay with you....and be your husband.... the best that I can be....if you must leave...I will let you go....but I will never stop loving you...and I will always be waiting for your return....and love you as if you had never gone....
I talked to El Papa about this when I first fell in love with you.... I made this commitment to Him....before we ever made love....(passionate amor most precious)....I told God that I will love you...Eliza....the way His Word says to love you....without exception....without condition....
This may be via dolorosa for me....But it does not matter....I have already made this oath...and I will be faithful in this until death.
But this oath that I have made does not in any way bind you....You, my love, in your heart, and your soul, and your mind must answer only to God for the promise that you have made....You are a free moral agent, and the seed of Adam..and of Eve..and the seed of the promise..Which is Joshua Christie..You have the Grace of God...and the love of your husband....in all things....always.
Stephen

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Advice and Consent...

All I need from friends and family

Thank you Grace....I needed to be reminded....This is the advice of my Grandfather and my Father's generation....I believe it still works just as good today!

Hope you are well....

Elisa and I are going to Knoxville Tennessee....to get married this week end....say a prayer for us....
Will spend some time in Florida....Then we will live in Summerville SC. Will live with Eliza's Daughter and Son-in-law... Marcia and Ben...untill we find the right place for us... and our horses...and our dogs.

I am very happy...Eliza is an exceptional woman and I will do all I can to be a good husband...by the Grace of God... we will live in faith, hope, and love.

Take care...God bless you and yours...If y'all or ever in South Carolina, come and see us!

Stephen.

> ----- Original Message -----
> From: Diane Burn
> Sent: Tuesday, July 05, 2005 8:26 PM
> Subject: FW: An Old Farmer's Advice

An Old Farmer's Advice:

* Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and
bull-strong.

* Keep skunks, bankers and lawyers at a distance.

* Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.

* A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John
Deere tractor.

* Words that soak into your ears are whispered...not
yelled.

* Meanness don't jes' happen overnight.

* Forgive your enemies. It messes up their heads.

* Do not corner something that you know is meaner
than you.

* It don't take a very big person to carry a grudge.


* You cannot unsay a cruel word.

* Every path has a few puddles.

* When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

* The best sermons are lived, not preached.

* Most of the stuff people worry about ain't never
gonna happen anyway.

* Don't judge folks by their relatives.

* Remember that silence is sometimes the best
answer.

* Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get
older and think back, you'll enjoy it a second time.

* Don't interfere with somethin' that ain't
botherin' you none.

* Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain
dance.

* If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to
do is stop diggin'.

* Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.

* The biggest troublemaker you'll probably ever have
to deal with watches you from the mirror every
mornin'.

* Always drink upstream from the herd.

* Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta
that comes from bad judgment

* Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot
easier than puttin' it back in.
* If you get to thinkin' you're a person of some
influence, try orderin' somebody else's dog around.

* Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak
kindly. Leave the rest to God.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Ride or Write?

Dear Teri,
Sorry we couldn't talk last night....Big discussion
with Eliza about new writing....And trip to Honduras.
Glad you got the IM working....
Did not ride yesterday because of work (racking my
brain over "Rhett"...My unfinished novel...
http://www.sunshinedixieland.com/rhettcoverpage.html
getting nowhere right now).....Will ride
today......Maybe I can figure it out on the trail....

You are an intelligent woman, so let me bounce this off
you....Rhett does not die...of course...But
considering all you may know about the character of
Scarlet...Has she truly lost her mind...or is she
still trying to be the center of everyone's
attention....or a little of both??? There is something
about him that she is afraid of...Something she would
like to fix, change, or otherwise "kill"...Maybe
instinctively?...She does, of course, truly love
him...But all of this is twisted up in the psychosis of
her illness...which she inherited from her Irish
Father...She lost everything...gained it all back..and
more.. By her own determination and guts....then lost
it all again...when she lost Bonnie (her love
child)and Melanie (her only girl friend) and Rhett
(her only real love)....Now she is in and out of
alternate realities....

Rhett....in spite of what he says and thinks...will
never give her up....completely....
He knows that he will never love another woman...Not
in this way that he loves Scarlet...But he is a
practical man....and must deal with the realities of
her illness and his own life...As he struggles with an
ever present question...Who exactly is he, Rhett
Butler, besides the man who loves Scarlet O'Hara?

anyway...All of this sounds plausible in my mind...
and seems right in my guts....But getting the dialog
and characters right within the historical context of
the novel is a struggle....and Margaret Mitchell haunts
me every day....I do not want to make the same
mistakes that Ripley made with this classic of
American literature.....

Ridding is so much easier than writing....I some
times wonder why I bother....But...I truly cannot
stop...I am addicted....I will fall into periods of
tranquil dormant bliss...not write at all....But, sooner
or latter, I always go back to the same well of words
and drink myself drunk on the heady waters of prose
and poetry...and like the ancient warrior poets...I go
hacking and slashing into the fray...Until I am
wounded, and exhausted, and weary to the very marrow of
my bones. Splattered with the blood of my foes...I
gasp for breath, with my heart-beat pounding in my
head, I survey the carnage I have made in this
endless war of humanity's language....Hoping to find
there... something that is truly ART!

Well...this has really become a tangent....of
rambling thought....Nothing a good editor could not
fix....I am sure...

hope we can chat latter...

yours,
Stephen