Anyone under 30 is starting to meld together in a group of “awww, they’re so young”.
I found this out the other day while dropping the Princess off at school.
ME: *notices strange man watching kids* Who’s that? He doesn’t belong here.
PRINCESS: That’s a security guard, Mum.
ME: Really? He’s awful young. He looks like a nice boy.
PRINCESS: He’s your age.
Me: He can’t be. He has no gray.
PRINCESS: Neither do you. Yet.
I feel like one of those signs at the grocer’s–We card anyone who appears under 45! This is, incidentally, part of why I don’t date. Either you’re my age and presumably already have a marriage and/or a divorce, or you’re Too Young For Me. (There’s also the part where I don’t have time, because I gotta write to feed the mortgage and the kids, and if I’m not doing that I’m cleaning or baking or some damn other thing.)
I’m also thinking about fairy tales a lot lately. Mostly because Nameless is due out in a few months, and I’m revising the second in that series as well as deciding what aspects of another fairy tale I want for the third. The tales grow and mutate over time, and digging to find their bones–as well as which bones you choose to unearth, and which you choose to leave in the mouldering–says a lot about one’s deep assumptions or internalized sort-of-truths, both personally and culturally. It’s no secret a lot of fairy tales are gruesome, and that even more of them highlight problematic family relations. Others talk about the use and misuse of power, the charged field of human sexuality, and so on, so forth.
I don’t have a particular point to this ramble, I’m just turning over different stories inside my head, examining them to see what makes them tick. Getting under the hood and seeing what makes it go, what I can poke and prod to make run smoother, what I can update and what’s best left in place. Some of what you leave is just a matter of preferences, or personal choice, or blind chance. Maybe every writer starts messing with fairy tales at least once in their writing life, just out of fascination and curiousity.
The other thing on my mind this day is getting Odd Trundles taken in to get his nails cut. He won’t let me do it, and he’s grown to the point where I can’t judo him anymore without all sorts of stress on both our parts. The groomer can do it quickly and humanely, and we’ll all be happier.
But I suspect Odd won’t like it one little bit, and I’m almost afraid of the story I’ll have to tell afterward.
Over and out…