Dec 4, 2017 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
Monday Motivations for Writers
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Motivational Monday for Writers
“Give them a reason to care about you. Then they’ll care about what you write.” ~ Molly Jo Realy
With a pat on your back and a go-gettem-shout,
Happy writing!
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
Aug 24, 2017 |
by Molly Jo Realy @RealMojo68
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Something Wicked This Way Comes
August is almost over. Soon my cup will runneth over . . . with Pumpkin Spice Lattes, walks over crunchy leaves in the park, and that little tingle down my spine.
Some say it’s too early for autumn. I disagree. When that famous Starbuck’s drink rolls out next week, I’m all about the sweaters and squash.
This is the time of year my senses are heightened, waiting for that eerie carnival music to creep in at dusk, those artificially bright lights that color the dark night. Yes, y’all have heard it from me before. I’m a fan of Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes. And because I’m a fan of that book and movie, I’m not a fan of traveling carnivals. In August, October, or any other time of the year.
Did you know the phrase is a quote from Shakespeare’s Macbeth?
“By the pricking of my thumbs
something wicked this way comes.”
Because it’s Shakespeare, the iambic pentameter gives it a rhythm nearly unforgettable. And so it cycles around in my head. Around, and around, with the swirling leaves, and the steaming lattes.
There are a handful of movies I love to watch this time of year, but this one is my autumn movie.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Something Wicked This Way Comes
Bradbury tells the story of being twelve years old and meeting the great magician, Mr. Electrico, at a traveling carnival. Mr. Electrico essentially knighted him with his electrified sword and instructed him, “Live forever!” Shortly after, Bradbury began writing every day. At the time of his death, he had written more than 30 books, nearly 600 short stories, and numerous poems, essays, screenplays and plays.
I am reminded how, shortly after high school, my girlfriends and I went to our local carnival. We relished the neon draw, the straw finding its way around our shoes. We walked from attraction to attraction, from game to game, playing what we could and taking the winnings.
I remember a barker-a stranger-at one of the games, striking up conversation.
He asked what part of the South I was from. My friends and I giggled. “South?” I said. “I’m from the Midwest.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Your accent. You’re definitely from Georgia. Or Louisiana.”
I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. I remember him trying to look nonchalant yet having a knowing look in his eye. I remember clutching whatever cheap stuffed animal I had won, or had been rigged to win, as my friends and I walked away. We laughed at the absurdity of his comment.
But I’ve never forgotten it.
And now, so many years later, I’m writing a novel set in New Orleans. My house has Southern flair, and my cooking has Southern flavors. My best friends are in the South.
And I still speak with a Southern accent I can’t account for.
Bradbury tells how Mr. Electrico greeted him. “You were my best friend in the great war in France in 1918 and you were wounded and died in my arms at the battle of the Ardennes Forrest. But now, here today, I see his soul shining out of your eyes. Here you are, with a new face, a new name, but the soul shining from your face is the soul of my dear dead friend. Welcome back to the world.”
This time of year, it’s nearly a trance. How Bradbury’s story, his movie, captures me. Reminds me. Motivates me.
My thumbs itch as I type, my fingers stand at the ready to do more. More typing. More adventuring. More everything. And I can almost smell the patchouli on the dark breeze.
What movie captures your attentions this time of year?
TWEET THIS: What’s your Go-To #autumn movie? @RealMojo68 #raybradbury #somethingwicked
With a beating heart and waiting coffee cup,
Happy haunts.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
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Jun 7, 2012 |
I saw the news tonight. Ray Bradbury has died at the age of 91.
Bradbury was the author of many great books like Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, and my personal favorite, Something Wicked This Way Comes.
His science fiction writings often predicted things and events such as the invention of ATM machines. He even prophesied live-action crime on television screens. The immensity of our consumerism. And he hinted often at other worlds, friend or foe.
He has inspired my dreams… and my nightmares. And my writing. I am not gifted in the sci-fi genre, but Bradbury’s books make it so readable, that as a writer I couldn’t help but pick up a beginner’s foray into the unknown.
His great style of combining the detailed color of environment with even more colorful characters has been a staple of school reading for decades. His plots and settings were so dramatic, yet simplistic. Around any normal corner could lurk the largest hero, or smallest shadows. And sometimes both.
The world is a bit lonelier tonight, but the stars are having a party. Their Master of Ceremonies is home.
What’s your favorite Ray Bradbury book?
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
The first “storm” of the season is on its way to Southern California, bringing with it high winds and light snow. I’m hopeful (but not realistic) about seeing a flake or two this weekend. My trees are billowing as I write this, and about ready to drop their leaves.
I love this time of year: the time when the desert is a little more colorful, when people bundle in sweaters and scarfs, when the smell of fireplaces and warm cooking are almost everywhere.
And so are the traveling carnivals. You know what I’m talking about: those caravans of Big Rigs that take over the local mall parking lot for less than a week. The rusted colorful contraptions they set up when no one’s looking. It’s as though they sneak in at the dead of night and stay just long enough to play their creepy music. Then just as suddenly, they’re gone.
Every year they show up here at the end of October, and two things happen.
First, the wind blows harder and colder, forcing pedestrians to wrap their coats tighter as they scurry to and from the safety of their buildings or cars. Their eyes dart about to find what their hands don’t want to reach for unless they have to. Cold handles, flying papers. Anything the wind can play with.
Second, I always think of Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes”. I read the book in junior high, the year my father passed away. I could relate to the absent father storyline. It was fresh pain. Being raised in the midwest the descriptive book and subsequent movie seemed to add to the already imaginative thoughts I carried: the atmosphere of falling leaves, the early nightfalls, and all the What If’s… The story both scared and delighted me, creating that sweaty nervousness that only a great page can.
To this day, I count it as one of my favorite stories. It must be. It still affects how I feel at the end of October.
The desert isn’t a colorful place. Grass yards are not the norm, and rainstorms are few and far between. And so today’s storm is teasing us, saying this is what could be. Very much like Mr. Dark tempting the boys.
The winds bring apprehension and suspense. Maybe tomorrow there will be the smell of rain. At night, perhaps a snowflake or two. Full of promise… or lies.
An autumn wind always makes me think Hitchcockian. What secrets blow with it? What will it take away when it leaves? The local carnival left today. I wonder if the storm drove it away, or is following the show.
And I can’t help but recite, as the sun sets and the leaves rustle in the howling winds…
“By the pricking of my thumb,
Something wicked this way comes.”And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
