Off. Alec Ward: Where is Zinnia?
Zinnia: I’ll do you one better: who is Zinnia?
Maman Brighid & Papa Samedi: We’ll do you one better: why is Zinnia?
Le Roi: I don’t want to answer these questions.
Zinnia: Dont joke about murder. I was murdered once and it offends me.
As a writer, I love looking over my old notes and scraps because they are a goldmine of sheer sass. e.g.:
“Do you know the story of Isaac?”
“I want you to take a good long look at me, because do you think I’ve read the Bible?
He didn’t even deign her with a reproachful look. “I’m afraid you have little understanding of farm country.”
“What, that happen to a lot of people?”
“No. We tend to be a bit above stabbing those who offend us.”
“The demon dog running rampant says otherwise.”
And my favorite
“How the hell is there a wrong way to stab something? You just stab ‘em with the sharp end.”
I love seeing people compare first and last sentences from fiction. You see the development of the characters in just a few words. Some have these profound introductions, eloquent and elegant.
Then there’s Zinnia: “Holy shit…I’m dead,” she muttered to herself. “Son of a bitch, I’m dead.”
I’m going to put aside Latin American sites/cartography and actually write a bit of Hallow Hound.
I got to talk about Maya underworld mythology in my Spanish colonial art seminar. Specifically, I was explaining how Christian concepts of “live the virtuous life or you’re going to hell” doesn’t really scare a people whose afterlife is determined by how you die and already consists of 9 levels of spooky ass gods for anyone that didn’t die in battle.
They were very surprised about how well versed I was in this. I think I need to wear a warning label that says; “Encyclopedic knowledge of underworld mythology and monsters. Mention zombies at your own risk.”
I’m a special type of procrastinator. i.e. Instead of doing lit review like I should have been, I spent the last 6 hours formatting/polishing my index of death deities. Now its late and I still have a shit ton of reading to do.