I saw the new James Bond movie tonight. SKYFALL. Don’t worry, I won’t give away any spoilers.

Have I told you how hard it is for me to watch movies or television? It has to be an exceptionally good program to distract me from my Writer’s Brain that is always trying to rewrite the scenes.

An even better program is one that inspires me to not write. I can often be found scribbling notes in the dark of the theater, but a great movie keeps my eyes, and thoughts, on the screen.

SKYFALL did just that. Only occasionally did I wish theaters offered a Pause or Rewind option, so I could better indulge my senses.

I found myself striving to be one of those writers. Another Ian Fleming. Or Louisa May Alcott. The kind of writer whose story quality you know just from their name. When was the last time you heard “Bond. James Bond.” and didn’t imagine a tall, suave tuxedoed spy ready to tackle any problem – or person – that came at him? Or do you imagine Sherlock Holmes without his hat and pipe?

It can’t be done.

That’s the type of writer I strive to be. One who perhaps writes in a language a bit more romantic and old-fashioned, who can capture scene and emotion and action with one swift pen stroke. Whose characters are endearing, endangered, and extraordinary.

I desire strongly to capture the essence of the world around me, whether it be filled with steel and glass that shatters on impact, or an endless row of cherry blossom trees that lace the river banks with their delicate pink flowers.

When I’m lost in a setting of modern machine guns in exotic countries or strolling through woods of old…

That’s the type of writer I strive to be.

Jo. Molly Jo.

And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!

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