Man, if I wasn't completely in love with my Stevie...
Gabriel Byrne could play Logan - He could make anyone (including me, thank you very much) forget my beloved main character is supposed to be a freckle-faced, red headed Celt and completely take over the role...
**Esteemed credit for this video goes to YouTube Artist, Babsy513
**Video is entitled: THE FABULOUS GABRIEL BYRNE
Showing posts with label behind the wall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label behind the wall. Show all posts
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Saturday, June 30, 2007
An Excerpt from BEHIND THE WALL
Logan pulled his SUV up to the little cottage, turned off the ignition and sat in silence for a moment or two before disembarking and approaching the door. When there was no response to his knock, reflexively he tried the latch; it was unlocked. He toyed briefly with the idea of coming back later but the simple truth of it was that he could not leave. Knowing this might upset Cassie yet unable to reconcile his feelings of trepidation and longing, Logan entered her house.
As he moved through the vestibule and into the hallway, even though it had been less than two weeks since he'd been there, he had the bitter sweet sensation of the distant warmth and familiarity one experiences when he visits the childhood home he'd left long ago.
With a barrage of memories assailing him, he moved through the darkened cottage. His breath caught in his throat as he stepped into the library alcove. The overstuffed sofa where they had so often lain entwined reading and discussing books was unnervingly disheveled, its down-filled pillows tossed to the floor. The woven silk blanket Cassie had always treated with such care had been wadded like a piece of crumbled paper and likewise discarded, shoved under the table. Standing menacingly close to the edge was a bottle of Pinot Grigio, opened but untouched. One of the glasses they had bought at the estate sale was lying on its side in the center of the table, its rim cracked. He smiled resolutely as he bent down and, with a gentle puff of his breath, extinguished a double-wicked candle that had been carelessly left burning. Next to it he eyed a book of matches and a silver bowl containing an obscure love note Jamie had written to Cassie and several photos of the two of them. The antique pewter frame in which Cassie had encased her favorite photo of Jamie had been taken apart, its pieces discarded haphazardly; there was no sign of the photo. Logan sat on the sofa, leaned back and heaved a heavy sigh as he assessed the scene laid out before him. Eventually his gaze made its way to the fireplace. He hadn't noticed until now that the painting of the cottage was missing from its perch above the mantle, the poker likewise missing from its hook.
As he entered the living room he discovered the missing poker lying on the floor in the center of the room, its pointed end proximal to the painting which had been set upright with its back against the settee. A disbelieving breath escaped Logan's lips as he drew his hand to his brow and down the length of his face. He blinked back the moisture in his eyes and cleared his throat as he continued his survey of every gut wrenching detail.
As he continued numbly through the house, he found the kitchen uncharacteristically pristine, though the aloe plant was in dire need of water. The sun-room door to the garden had been left wide open. He descended the three steps to close it but as the cool night air caressed him, he suddenly turned and hastened back though the house to the stairway that led to Cassie's bedroom.
He bounded the steps as though he were being chased but he paused at the top and entered cautiously. He closed his eyes as he basked in the scent of her perfume. The moonlight glaring through her window illuminated the bed which looked as though it had not been touched since he'd been there, except that this pillow had been removed. So had the patchwork blanket he'd given her. Overtaken by vivid memories of the two of them wrestling in the throws of passion, he sat on the bed taking her pillow into his arms. Clutching it to his middle, he rocked inconsolably, his flooding eyes fixed on the crescent moon.
Resolved to being systematically eliminated from her life, a despairing Logan eventually made his way back downstairs. He'd decided to leave her alone; he would not hurt her anymore.
Mechanically, he located a small box from the studio and began to pack some of his things: Paintbrushes, CD's, his camera, a couple of shirts. He remembered the small photo of the two of them that Cassie had kept on the windowsill in the kitchen and went to retrieve it; it was a surefire bet she would not miss it.
He hadn't intended to touch anything except to take his things, but the drooping aloe plant was begging for water. Believing she would not notice, he removed it from the sill, lowered it to the basin and was instantly afforded a clear view of the garden and his easel. It dawned on him how much he'd invested in this relationship. He'd never given himself over to anyone like this. He had made this woman his reason for living and her little cottage his home. Refusing harborage to the pain that once again threatened to overtake him, he let the water run into the watering can to set, relieved the plant of a dead stalk and decided he needed to remove the easel. She'd probably be grateful to be rid of it.
He shook the water off his hands, dried them on the dishtowel and made his way to the garden. As he began to turn the wing nut on the easel, he was distracted by a rustling sound behind him. Turning toward it, he was stunned by what he saw.
~~~~~~~
There was Cassie sound asleep in the Victorian hammock with the patchwork quilt hanging off her legs. He furrowed his brow as he moved silently toward her drinking in the sight. Looking down at her, his eyes widened as his heart broke with joy. She was wearing the white nightgown he'd bought for her, her loosened hair cascading over her shoulders. She was clutching his pillow to her breast and in her right hand she held the deframed photo of Jamie that had been her favorite. Two of the DVD's that had been sent to her in that cursed box were on her lap still in their sealed cases. Unable to help himself, Logan bent down and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. "I'm here now," he whispered. She turned toward his kiss and sleepily sighed affirmation that she had heard him, "Jamie..."
He lifted the blanket over her being careful not to wake her, left the easel where it was, and made his way to the house. His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth lifted as he turned around to look at her before stepping inside. He would come back in the morning.
As he was deciding whether to place his things back from where he'd retrieved them, he heard the garden door open and close.
Cassie had awakened and wrapped herself in the blanket. Momentarily unsure whether she was still dreaming as she entered to find him standing in her library, she beamed at the sight of him. "Jamie!" She cried as he turned toward her, his arms outstretched. But her bright eyes and beaming smile vanished as the agonizing reality of all that had transpired between them hit hard. Her voice caught in her throat as she corrected herself. "Jamie... Lo--gan... Jamm... Oh my God," she sobbed bitterly, "I don't even know your name. I don't know what to call you..." She stepped toward him and with her open palms began to pound upon upon his chest. "You bastard... Why did you do this to me? Why? What kind of a man are you? I loved him... You bastard. How could you..." She raised her fisted hands into the air as though she wanted to strike him but froze, incapable of doing so.
Logan grabbed her wrists to calm her. His proximity and his touch were unbearably painful to her. Cassie tried to pull away from him but as she turned to twist out of his grasp, she merely succeeded in wrapping his arms around her. With Logan holding her wrists, her arms crossed against her chest and her back drawn into him, the warmth of his body penetrated her hysteria. She no longer had any fight left in her. Her knees buckled as she collapsed into his embrace, utterly broken, desperately mourning the loss of Jamie. "I can't do this. It hurts too much," her sobs turning to whimpers. "This is my nightmare... How could you... This is my nightmare."
Logan cradled her softly whispering words of comfort as he gently lowered himself to the floor. Emboldened by the realization that she had not stopped loving him, he kissed her face as he stroked her hair. "I'm here now; it's all right. Don't cry, Cassie. It's going to be all right now." It was him she loved and there would be a way to show her that. This was not the end for them; he would see to it.
CM
Copyright © 2007 Carol Marsella, BEHIND THE WALL. Newprose.org. All rights reserved.
As he moved through the vestibule and into the hallway, even though it had been less than two weeks since he'd been there, he had the bitter sweet sensation of the distant warmth and familiarity one experiences when he visits the childhood home he'd left long ago.
With a barrage of memories assailing him, he moved through the darkened cottage. His breath caught in his throat as he stepped into the library alcove. The overstuffed sofa where they had so often lain entwined reading and discussing books was unnervingly disheveled, its down-filled pillows tossed to the floor. The woven silk blanket Cassie had always treated with such care had been wadded like a piece of crumbled paper and likewise discarded, shoved under the table. Standing menacingly close to the edge was a bottle of Pinot Grigio, opened but untouched. One of the glasses they had bought at the estate sale was lying on its side in the center of the table, its rim cracked. He smiled resolutely as he bent down and, with a gentle puff of his breath, extinguished a double-wicked candle that had been carelessly left burning. Next to it he eyed a book of matches and a silver bowl containing an obscure love note Jamie had written to Cassie and several photos of the two of them. The antique pewter frame in which Cassie had encased her favorite photo of Jamie had been taken apart, its pieces discarded haphazardly; there was no sign of the photo. Logan sat on the sofa, leaned back and heaved a heavy sigh as he assessed the scene laid out before him. Eventually his gaze made its way to the fireplace. He hadn't noticed until now that the painting of the cottage was missing from its perch above the mantle, the poker likewise missing from its hook.
As he entered the living room he discovered the missing poker lying on the floor in the center of the room, its pointed end proximal to the painting which had been set upright with its back against the settee. A disbelieving breath escaped Logan's lips as he drew his hand to his brow and down the length of his face. He blinked back the moisture in his eyes and cleared his throat as he continued his survey of every gut wrenching detail.
As he continued numbly through the house, he found the kitchen uncharacteristically pristine, though the aloe plant was in dire need of water. The sun-room door to the garden had been left wide open. He descended the three steps to close it but as the cool night air caressed him, he suddenly turned and hastened back though the house to the stairway that led to Cassie's bedroom.
He bounded the steps as though he were being chased but he paused at the top and entered cautiously. He closed his eyes as he basked in the scent of her perfume. The moonlight glaring through her window illuminated the bed which looked as though it had not been touched since he'd been there, except that this pillow had been removed. So had the patchwork blanket he'd given her. Overtaken by vivid memories of the two of them wrestling in the throws of passion, he sat on the bed taking her pillow into his arms. Clutching it to his middle, he rocked inconsolably, his flooding eyes fixed on the crescent moon.
Resolved to being systematically eliminated from her life, a despairing Logan eventually made his way back downstairs. He'd decided to leave her alone; he would not hurt her anymore.
Mechanically, he located a small box from the studio and began to pack some of his things: Paintbrushes, CD's, his camera, a couple of shirts. He remembered the small photo of the two of them that Cassie had kept on the windowsill in the kitchen and went to retrieve it; it was a surefire bet she would not miss it.
He hadn't intended to touch anything except to take his things, but the drooping aloe plant was begging for water. Believing she would not notice, he removed it from the sill, lowered it to the basin and was instantly afforded a clear view of the garden and his easel. It dawned on him how much he'd invested in this relationship. He'd never given himself over to anyone like this. He had made this woman his reason for living and her little cottage his home. Refusing harborage to the pain that once again threatened to overtake him, he let the water run into the watering can to set, relieved the plant of a dead stalk and decided he needed to remove the easel. She'd probably be grateful to be rid of it.
He shook the water off his hands, dried them on the dishtowel and made his way to the garden. As he began to turn the wing nut on the easel, he was distracted by a rustling sound behind him. Turning toward it, he was stunned by what he saw.
~~~~~~~
There was Cassie sound asleep in the Victorian hammock with the patchwork quilt hanging off her legs. He furrowed his brow as he moved silently toward her drinking in the sight. Looking down at her, his eyes widened as his heart broke with joy. She was wearing the white nightgown he'd bought for her, her loosened hair cascading over her shoulders. She was clutching his pillow to her breast and in her right hand she held the deframed photo of Jamie that had been her favorite. Two of the DVD's that had been sent to her in that cursed box were on her lap still in their sealed cases. Unable to help himself, Logan bent down and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. "I'm here now," he whispered. She turned toward his kiss and sleepily sighed affirmation that she had heard him, "Jamie..."
He lifted the blanket over her being careful not to wake her, left the easel where it was, and made his way to the house. His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth lifted as he turned around to look at her before stepping inside. He would come back in the morning.
As he was deciding whether to place his things back from where he'd retrieved them, he heard the garden door open and close.
Cassie had awakened and wrapped herself in the blanket. Momentarily unsure whether she was still dreaming as she entered to find him standing in her library, she beamed at the sight of him. "Jamie!" She cried as he turned toward her, his arms outstretched. But her bright eyes and beaming smile vanished as the agonizing reality of all that had transpired between them hit hard. Her voice caught in her throat as she corrected herself. "Jamie... Lo--gan... Jamm... Oh my God," she sobbed bitterly, "I don't even know your name. I don't know what to call you..." She stepped toward him and with her open palms began to pound upon upon his chest. "You bastard... Why did you do this to me? Why? What kind of a man are you? I loved him... You bastard. How could you..." She raised her fisted hands into the air as though she wanted to strike him but froze, incapable of doing so.
Logan grabbed her wrists to calm her. His proximity and his touch were unbearably painful to her. Cassie tried to pull away from him but as she turned to twist out of his grasp, she merely succeeded in wrapping his arms around her. With Logan holding her wrists, her arms crossed against her chest and her back drawn into him, the warmth of his body penetrated her hysteria. She no longer had any fight left in her. Her knees buckled as she collapsed into his embrace, utterly broken, desperately mourning the loss of Jamie. "I can't do this. It hurts too much," her sobs turning to whimpers. "This is my nightmare... How could you... This is my nightmare."
Logan cradled her softly whispering words of comfort as he gently lowered himself to the floor. Emboldened by the realization that she had not stopped loving him, he kissed her face as he stroked her hair. "I'm here now; it's all right. Don't cry, Cassie. It's going to be all right now." It was him she loved and there would be a way to show her that. This was not the end for them; he would see to it.
CM
Copyright © 2007 Carol Marsella, BEHIND THE WALL. Newprose.org. All rights reserved.
Monday, March 19, 2007
DISMUSED!
TODAY I am faced with something interesting. My lustfully muse-filled emotions - that feeling of bliss when one is in love – are settling down.
Last evening I had a perplexing sort of "turn-off" experience that one would think would have been, I dare say should have been, the polar-opposite. It all started innocently enough when I checked my email. I was suddenly and delightfully besieged with a lengthy list of interesting tidbits on my Logan-muse, talented British actor Sean Bean. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Presently, there is a lot on him owing to the UK release of his latest movie, OUTLAW.
This is as good a place as any to interject that I had discovered him several months ago and become ensorcelled and bean-mused without even realizing it. (Cheap play on words, I know, but cut me some slack; it was right there. I had to do it.) The main character for my story, BEHIND THE WALL, finally came to life and spilled out of my imagination and onto the keyboard within days, requiring very little applied effort on my part. He suddenly had a soul and I would never, for one minute, deny that Bean gets full credit for that inspiration. He has indeed been a wonderful muse. No let downs there I can assure you. Handsome and rugged with a voice that is soft and smoky and warm all the way down, he lingers just on the steamy side of delicious! From that first moment when I sat bolt upright in my bed and raced to the keyboard in the depths of night to introduce Logan to the rest of the personae, this man has been on my mind. Rest assured this does not mean more than that. I am not the celebrity-crushing, forum-joining, blogging type. He simply made his way into my head and inspired a book. (Nice little feather for his thespian cap, eh?) Having no real clue about this man of whom I'd never heard and have now learned, to my utter surprise, has been around for the last twenty-something years, (I need to get out more...) I wanted to see more of him. But what to do! I set myself up at IMDb and have been no less than stunned at his lengthy resume! While there I was offered an option to "Google” him. I did. (Sounds playfully naughty, doesn't it?)
It seems Google will email you new information as it hits the Internet on any subject in which you may have an interest. If you click on this option, you need do nothing more. Now I, being a sap for the easy way to do anything, opted in to the Sean Bean Google Alert in hopes of locating and possibly downloading the perfect musable photos of him. To that end, I have successfully printed out two outstanding shots of him. They are strategically perched on my storyboard even as I write this.
Additionally, I have learned that he had appeared in LORD OF THE RINGS - as Boromir, no less – (Stop rolling your eyes; it’s not attractive.) I freely admit to knowing that I may well be the one person who had not seen it. But hear me out; I’d completely resisted viewing it because I have so deeply loved and cherished my own heady creative interpretations inspired by Tolkien's masterpiece books. I was more than a little put off by the idea of anyone's unwelcome, special effects laden, hollywoodesque interpretations interfering with my wonderful childhood hiding place. Suffice it to say that I can now add crossing that bridge and having a wonderful experience doing so to the list of things for which Mr. Bean's sudden appearance in my life gets all the credit. (Should I write him a Thank You?) Now that I have seen it, I cannot believe that I refused so adamantly to view it, in spite of its intermittent varying, which I have now come to embrace. (**Such a stubborn refusal on my part is sacrilegious, especially given that LOTR also boasts among its cast members my most highly favored, revered actor, Ian McKellen, as Gandalf. But I digress.)
The point I am attempting to make is that I was happily moving forward, writing my little heart out, ecstatically becoming hopelessly engrossed in what I believe to be the finest thing I have ever written. Last evening, suddenly and without warning, it came to a screeching halt for reasons that astound and bewilder me.
I'd opened my email to find a lengthy list of Google alerts for my muse. Rubbed my hands together in anticipation of finding that one elusive, perfect photo for which I'd been longing and clicked to open. Eureka! There amongst the proverbial ashes I did indeed find it. Perfect. Exactly what I am looking for. Time to close and disable the alerts. But there was so much more listed and I am compelled to admit, I mean, uh, confess that morbid curiosity, well, to be brutally honest it was an embarrassing sort of slimy internet voyeurism that beckoned me to continue. (What is it they say about curiosity and a certain cat?)
Nothing dangerous to start... some news items about the release of OUTLAW; too many links to interviews and reviews, both written and video. Don't need to spend time on those. (I tend to go out of my way to avoid interviews by actors, preferring to simply enjoy the magic…) There were old items about other features; bloggers' wisdom on same; male and female opinions and adolescent rantings over all his, let us politely say: attributes... It does boggle the mind what some people will write for all the world to see. (Would we call that a bloggin' boggle?) I continued along, occasionally shaking my head, occasionally giggling as I unceremoniously nodded along in solidarity, acknowledging shared fantasies with his many fans, some of which were tantalizingly explicit, some grotesquely so. What the hell, I reasoned with myself, This is entertainment at its finest; real stuff by real folks. Who has not ever had such thoughts about an actor or actress with whose character one had fallen madly in love, or lust as the case may be? Nothing wrong with that; it's perfectly normal, healthy even. I encouraged myself to continue...
"SLASH... WARNING: EXPLICIT. Bean/..." was how it read. My first instinct was to shut the email down; delete it.
While I freely admit to having had such thoughts about Bean, even put them into print between my lead characters, Logan and Cassie, within the realms of their own bedroom role-play/fantasy exploits, I have never taken the plunge into the boldly explicit. What will it be like, I wondered, how far will it go? Clearly, what was offered here would be a fictionalized account (as opposed to that which I had already been reading: mere admissions of having had subjective sensual fantasies about Monsieur Bean.) THIS, on the other hand, would be blatant, wanton sex; the actual revealing of the fantasy itself sprawled across my screen. The resulting assailing thoughts coupled with my own now rampant fantasies were beyond seductive. I did not delete the email.
I paused, stood, walked away, meandered into the laundry room, fussed about for a bit...
Slowly, cautiously, I made my way back to the computer and opened up the link. (I often wonder if men realize the unparalleled sexual excitement a woman relishes from the occasional male/male fantasy. Can they have even the remotest clue? I suspicion they think this idea of same sex fantasy, albeit female/female, is exclusively theirs, but I shall examine that likelihood another time, possibly in essay form.) I jumped in with right hand planted steadfastly in a death grip upon my mouse at the ready to close it down in an instant should I find it all too much for my now overly stimulated, out of control sensual psyche. (I thought it a necessarily safe place for my right hand to be.) Did I really need to see this man in this light? (Steve has already been blessed, or sexually harassed and abused as the case may be, with the ramifications of muse-lust after I have written a particularly steamy and/or romantic scene involving Logan and Cassie. He has stated emphatically on more than one occasion that if he ever meets Sean Bean he does indeed have two words for him: THANK YOU! Steve is so together, isn't he? What a guy, huh? But, what of this? Dare I get into this? Could I stand it; could Steve handle me if I did? Have mercy! I had worked myself up to the point of no return just thinking about the likely resulting aftermath before I'd even begun to read.)
- - - - - - - - - - -
Oh my darlings, I have flown too close to the sun and lost my muse.
I did not listen to my gut instinct, choosing instead to play with fire and I foolishly allowed myself to be ushered where I should never have gone. "Explicit" does not cover what I read. It was extreme; too extreme for me. I do not know how to describe what happened to me as I read along. It was literally a one-moment-excited-utterly-turned-on / next-moment-gone-too-far kind of thing. Snap! My muse was gone. (And I have the unmitigated gall, the extreme audacity to feel somehow violated.)
I had thought to enhance my own male/male fantasy involving someone whom I perceived to be an alpha-male and was instead introduced to the alternate point of view: that the idea of him as alpha-male is the fantasy, indeed the grand deception. It all rang too loud. Too loud... No beating me up, here. Please understand, I have no turn-off issues with homosexuality. On the contrary, as I have already explained, it is at times quite the opposite. (Now for the obligatory apologetic letmeexplain: I am a relatively non-imposing, non-judgmental woman who sees everyone as a loving morsel of God Itself, to be cherished. Wasn't that pretty?) Additionally, this is not in any way a reflection on Sean Bean. I don't know his personal business and I don't care to know, sexual or otherwise. He is an accomplished, outstanding actor and I ask nothing more from him than more (much more) in that arena. Please, God! The only bearing all this has here is in its significance to how it relates to muse: If Logan is not who I think he is, my story takes another road, a whole new road, with twists and bumps I had not anticipated.
Dammit! It's all taken up residence in my head now...
Whether or not I am going to be able to manage this does not look promising; when I'd read all that I could stand, instead of seeking out my own resident alpha-male for some hot'n steamy, I nestled into bed next to him and… went to sleep. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all... (The logical question here in its simplest form is: Why didn't I stop reading it? I have no answer for that... well, except to say that perhaps I was hoping that the sensual attraction that had been so strong would re-awaken before the conclusion, but the bare bones truth of it is I cannot know for sure. What I do know is that the analytical side of me will be beating this to death in the weeks to come. Have I expressed myself in expletives yet?)
How I will continue to write Logan without his soul or, I should say, the soul I had imagined for him, I do not know. I have never been so challenged and I am desperately afraid of where this will go. I do not know if I can write it at all. I approached my office this morning with the trepidation and disdain of a child taking a slow walk to the principal's office.
I have no interest to write it at all.
There is nothing.
Nothing...
Oh, lamentable day! Has all of what I have already written been for naught? Are Logan and Cassie to disappear forever, unfinished?
I have experienced writer's block before, but this... this is something else.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In BEHIND THE WALL, Cassie, who like most women is prone to the occasional premonition, laments to Logan that she has had a dream in which Jamie is standing right in front of her but she cannot sense his physicality, nor can she get to him, touch him. It’s as though there is a barrier between them. In desperation, emboldened by her love for him, she forces herself through the barrier which then smashes like glass into a million glittering pieces. What should have become a misty romantic interlude instead turns to horrific nightmare when Jamie himself also shatters and disappears. In his stead, just beyond where he had been standing, she sees the shadowy figure of a faceless man, devoid of voice, scent, body language or luster.
Seems I have, in writing this passage, had a premonition of my own...
Regretfully dis-mused in New Jersey,
Carol Marsella
Library/Excerpts: BEHIND THE WALL
Last evening I had a perplexing sort of "turn-off" experience that one would think would have been, I dare say should have been, the polar-opposite. It all started innocently enough when I checked my email. I was suddenly and delightfully besieged with a lengthy list of interesting tidbits on my Logan-muse, talented British actor Sean Bean. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Presently, there is a lot on him owing to the UK release of his latest movie, OUTLAW.
This is as good a place as any to interject that I had discovered him several months ago and become ensorcelled and bean-mused without even realizing it. (Cheap play on words, I know, but cut me some slack; it was right there. I had to do it.) The main character for my story, BEHIND THE WALL, finally came to life and spilled out of my imagination and onto the keyboard within days, requiring very little applied effort on my part. He suddenly had a soul and I would never, for one minute, deny that Bean gets full credit for that inspiration. He has indeed been a wonderful muse. No let downs there I can assure you. Handsome and rugged with a voice that is soft and smoky and warm all the way down, he lingers just on the steamy side of delicious! From that first moment when I sat bolt upright in my bed and raced to the keyboard in the depths of night to introduce Logan to the rest of the personae, this man has been on my mind. Rest assured this does not mean more than that. I am not the celebrity-crushing, forum-joining, blogging type. He simply made his way into my head and inspired a book. (Nice little feather for his thespian cap, eh?) Having no real clue about this man of whom I'd never heard and have now learned, to my utter surprise, has been around for the last twenty-something years, (I need to get out more...) I wanted to see more of him. But what to do! I set myself up at IMDb and have been no less than stunned at his lengthy resume! While there I was offered an option to "Google” him. I did. (Sounds playfully naughty, doesn't it?)
It seems Google will email you new information as it hits the Internet on any subject in which you may have an interest. If you click on this option, you need do nothing more. Now I, being a sap for the easy way to do anything, opted in to the Sean Bean Google Alert in hopes of locating and possibly downloading the perfect musable photos of him. To that end, I have successfully printed out two outstanding shots of him. They are strategically perched on my storyboard even as I write this.
Additionally, I have learned that he had appeared in LORD OF THE RINGS - as Boromir, no less – (Stop rolling your eyes; it’s not attractive.) I freely admit to knowing that I may well be the one person who had not seen it. But hear me out; I’d completely resisted viewing it because I have so deeply loved and cherished my own heady creative interpretations inspired by Tolkien's masterpiece books. I was more than a little put off by the idea of anyone's unwelcome, special effects laden, hollywoodesque interpretations interfering with my wonderful childhood hiding place. Suffice it to say that I can now add crossing that bridge and having a wonderful experience doing so to the list of things for which Mr. Bean's sudden appearance in my life gets all the credit. (Should I write him a Thank You?) Now that I have seen it, I cannot believe that I refused so adamantly to view it, in spite of its intermittent varying, which I have now come to embrace. (**Such a stubborn refusal on my part is sacrilegious, especially given that LOTR also boasts among its cast members my most highly favored, revered actor, Ian McKellen, as Gandalf. But I digress.)
The point I am attempting to make is that I was happily moving forward, writing my little heart out, ecstatically becoming hopelessly engrossed in what I believe to be the finest thing I have ever written. Last evening, suddenly and without warning, it came to a screeching halt for reasons that astound and bewilder me.
I'd opened my email to find a lengthy list of Google alerts for my muse. Rubbed my hands together in anticipation of finding that one elusive, perfect photo for which I'd been longing and clicked to open. Eureka! There amongst the proverbial ashes I did indeed find it. Perfect. Exactly what I am looking for. Time to close and disable the alerts. But there was so much more listed and I am compelled to admit, I mean, uh, confess that morbid curiosity, well, to be brutally honest it was an embarrassing sort of slimy internet voyeurism that beckoned me to continue. (What is it they say about curiosity and a certain cat?)
Nothing dangerous to start... some news items about the release of OUTLAW; too many links to interviews and reviews, both written and video. Don't need to spend time on those. (I tend to go out of my way to avoid interviews by actors, preferring to simply enjoy the magic…) There were old items about other features; bloggers' wisdom on same; male and female opinions and adolescent rantings over all his, let us politely say: attributes... It does boggle the mind what some people will write for all the world to see. (Would we call that a bloggin' boggle?) I continued along, occasionally shaking my head, occasionally giggling as I unceremoniously nodded along in solidarity, acknowledging shared fantasies with his many fans, some of which were tantalizingly explicit, some grotesquely so. What the hell, I reasoned with myself, This is entertainment at its finest; real stuff by real folks. Who has not ever had such thoughts about an actor or actress with whose character one had fallen madly in love, or lust as the case may be? Nothing wrong with that; it's perfectly normal, healthy even. I encouraged myself to continue...
"SLASH... WARNING: EXPLICIT. Bean/..." was how it read. My first instinct was to shut the email down; delete it.
While I freely admit to having had such thoughts about Bean, even put them into print between my lead characters, Logan and Cassie, within the realms of their own bedroom role-play/fantasy exploits, I have never taken the plunge into the boldly explicit. What will it be like, I wondered, how far will it go? Clearly, what was offered here would be a fictionalized account (as opposed to that which I had already been reading: mere admissions of having had subjective sensual fantasies about Monsieur Bean.) THIS, on the other hand, would be blatant, wanton sex; the actual revealing of the fantasy itself sprawled across my screen. The resulting assailing thoughts coupled with my own now rampant fantasies were beyond seductive. I did not delete the email.
I paused, stood, walked away, meandered into the laundry room, fussed about for a bit...
Slowly, cautiously, I made my way back to the computer and opened up the link. (I often wonder if men realize the unparalleled sexual excitement a woman relishes from the occasional male/male fantasy. Can they have even the remotest clue? I suspicion they think this idea of same sex fantasy, albeit female/female, is exclusively theirs, but I shall examine that likelihood another time, possibly in essay form.) I jumped in with right hand planted steadfastly in a death grip upon my mouse at the ready to close it down in an instant should I find it all too much for my now overly stimulated, out of control sensual psyche. (I thought it a necessarily safe place for my right hand to be.) Did I really need to see this man in this light? (Steve has already been blessed, or sexually harassed and abused as the case may be, with the ramifications of muse-lust after I have written a particularly steamy and/or romantic scene involving Logan and Cassie. He has stated emphatically on more than one occasion that if he ever meets Sean Bean he does indeed have two words for him: THANK YOU! Steve is so together, isn't he? What a guy, huh? But, what of this? Dare I get into this? Could I stand it; could Steve handle me if I did? Have mercy! I had worked myself up to the point of no return just thinking about the likely resulting aftermath before I'd even begun to read.)
- - - - - - - - - - -
Oh my darlings, I have flown too close to the sun and lost my muse.
I did not listen to my gut instinct, choosing instead to play with fire and I foolishly allowed myself to be ushered where I should never have gone. "Explicit" does not cover what I read. It was extreme; too extreme for me. I do not know how to describe what happened to me as I read along. It was literally a one-moment-excited-utterly-turned-on / next-moment-gone-too-far kind of thing. Snap! My muse was gone. (And I have the unmitigated gall, the extreme audacity to feel somehow violated.)
I had thought to enhance my own male/male fantasy involving someone whom I perceived to be an alpha-male and was instead introduced to the alternate point of view: that the idea of him as alpha-male is the fantasy, indeed the grand deception. It all rang too loud. Too loud... No beating me up, here. Please understand, I have no turn-off issues with homosexuality. On the contrary, as I have already explained, it is at times quite the opposite. (Now for the obligatory apologetic letmeexplain: I am a relatively non-imposing, non-judgmental woman who sees everyone as a loving morsel of God Itself, to be cherished. Wasn't that pretty?) Additionally, this is not in any way a reflection on Sean Bean. I don't know his personal business and I don't care to know, sexual or otherwise. He is an accomplished, outstanding actor and I ask nothing more from him than more (much more) in that arena. Please, God! The only bearing all this has here is in its significance to how it relates to muse: If Logan is not who I think he is, my story takes another road, a whole new road, with twists and bumps I had not anticipated.
Dammit! It's all taken up residence in my head now...
Whether or not I am going to be able to manage this does not look promising; when I'd read all that I could stand, instead of seeking out my own resident alpha-male for some hot'n steamy, I nestled into bed next to him and… went to sleep. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all... (The logical question here in its simplest form is: Why didn't I stop reading it? I have no answer for that... well, except to say that perhaps I was hoping that the sensual attraction that had been so strong would re-awaken before the conclusion, but the bare bones truth of it is I cannot know for sure. What I do know is that the analytical side of me will be beating this to death in the weeks to come. Have I expressed myself in expletives yet?)
How I will continue to write Logan without his soul or, I should say, the soul I had imagined for him, I do not know. I have never been so challenged and I am desperately afraid of where this will go. I do not know if I can write it at all. I approached my office this morning with the trepidation and disdain of a child taking a slow walk to the principal's office.
I have no interest to write it at all.
There is nothing.
Nothing...
Oh, lamentable day! Has all of what I have already written been for naught? Are Logan and Cassie to disappear forever, unfinished?
I have experienced writer's block before, but this... this is something else.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In BEHIND THE WALL, Cassie, who like most women is prone to the occasional premonition, laments to Logan that she has had a dream in which Jamie is standing right in front of her but she cannot sense his physicality, nor can she get to him, touch him. It’s as though there is a barrier between them. In desperation, emboldened by her love for him, she forces herself through the barrier which then smashes like glass into a million glittering pieces. What should have become a misty romantic interlude instead turns to horrific nightmare when Jamie himself also shatters and disappears. In his stead, just beyond where he had been standing, she sees the shadowy figure of a faceless man, devoid of voice, scent, body language or luster.
Seems I have, in writing this passage, had a premonition of my own...
Regretfully dis-mused in New Jersey,
Carol Marsella
Library/Excerpts: BEHIND THE WALL
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