Bond. James Bond.
I am reading a collection of short stories written by Ian Fleming. They are focused, not surprisingly, on James Bond. They are remarkably good. I think I read some Bond novels in my twenties but I cannot remember with any certainty. These stories have provided the titles, but not the plots, to some of the movies; Octopussy, A View to a Kill and For Your Eyes Only are some. The movies were entertaining at best. At worst, they are campy messes. The stories are not. They are jewels of precise descriptive passages of places and things and real human interaction. The characters are memorable but not cartoonish and Bond is an educated, sophisticated killer with a weakness for beautiful women and expensive alcohol. I do not wish to get into a debate, but Daniel Craig is who I see when I think of him and the latest Casino Royale is the closest approximation of a Bond story in the Fleming style in my opinion. The overall impression I am left with is that the writing is so, accomplished. Highly recommended.
Something to shoot for.
I am in the middle of writing and editing as usual. Editing my second book and writing what has grown into a murder mystery novella for the short story collection. My summer holidays begin today so I am looking forward to working toward the goal of having three books to my name. Volumes one and two of the Conor and Gray series and a book of short stories based in the same world but with different characters. By the end of August I hope.
It is becoming apparent that the writer's life is a more solitary one. Trying to come to terms with that. Turn the internal clock off, focus on what's in front of you and let things come as they may. Come to think of it, that is not much different than any other task worth accomplishing is it?
Some prose: Her back ached. Years bent over a loom had left her, bent. Her head was swimming from the tea. She was hungry, but she had rationed her food and she was done for the day. She snuggled down into her chair and drank the dregs in the cup. It helped her sleep. She thought of her mate and his awkward jiggling run into their garden to stop the Bonded. She died a little when she thought that the Believer would never return. She was never going to see either one of them ever again. Then her eyes focused on the orange and blue fire and she remembered.
Have a great long weekend readers!