Today, I have R. Harrison over to discuss the similarities of writing and climbing.
Writing is quite a bit like peak bagging. Sometimes you can see where you’re going:
And sometimes you can’t.
I think the peak’s ahead, up there somewhere. Anyway, that’s uphill.
It can lead you onward on a smooth path that leads the wrong way:
We want to be on that other mountain, don’t we? The one to the south (left in the picture.)
Sometimes things are stark, but unexpectedly beautiful:
Other times, who knows what lurks in the depths of the cavern.
I hope these pictures put you in the mood for something light, vaguely gothic, and decidedly tongue in cheek. For your delectation (love that phrase), consider Frankenkitty, the story of what happens when teenagers discover the good Doctor’s lost notebooks.
Jennifer has just lost her cat, Mr Snuffles, in an unfortunate incident with a car. Her neighbor, who is moving to assisted living, has something for her.
“In a way I do. Please come mit me, I haf something for you.”
Her mother nodded at her, and Jennifer helped the old lady back across the street. They entered her house and Mrs. Jones painfully lowered herself onto one of the stuffed chairs in the living room. Then she pointed to a wooden box. A shipping crate the size of a footlocker sat there on the other side of the room. It was from the late 1940's when she and her husband had come to America.
“That is for you, my dear. Use it vell.”
“May I see what's in it here?”
Jennifer opened the lid and looked at the contents. They were books. Dusty old hand-written books.
“Mrs. Jones, what are these?”
“They were my great grand-uncle’s. From his laboratory.”
Jennifer opened the one she held and tried to read it. “It's in German. I don't know German.”
“Not German, Schwabish. Bring it here and I'll read the first few words. You'll soon learn.”
“It's an ancestor of English. Not Hoch Deutsch.”
Jennifer took the first volume to Mrs. Jones. The old woman opened it and began to read, “Experiments in the reanimation of dead tissue.”
“What?” Jennifer asked, “What is this?”
“Didn't you know, I am a descendent of the great Dr. Baron von Frankenstein. These are his journals.”
“Did he really do it? Make dead things live again?”
“I don't know.” Mrs. Jones smiled at her, “But it might be fun to try.”
“But why me? Surely your family.”
Mrs. Jones reached over with a shaky age-spotted hand and tousled Jennifer's hair.
“Ach, I had these from my mother, she from hers, and she from hers. With a sacred charge to guard them. Not let them be used for evil. Mein daughter, she'd just sell them. I trust you.” She paused, “Besides, this way I know I'll have at least one visitor at the Towers who wants to see me.”