It’s the kind of thing you hear about. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to puke.
Inspiration. Fine and dandy if it comes to you, smug if it
comes to others. And in such ways it comes to them. Like this:
So here's the dream that had me awake a few minutes before
the alarm this morning: Two feuding New England towns, divided by the ice trade
that plies the lake that lies between them, are giddy with delight as the feud
nears an end due to the impending marriage that will join the two rival ice
houses. There is ice skating and rabbit raising for all -- until he returns.
He, of the black suit, thin mustache and uncompromising nature, is the one who
terrorized the bride-to-be as a child by daily smearing her with his
peanut-butter-encrusted fingers (I know the historical timing is a bit off,
can't help that) way back in grade school. His presence in town upsets the
wedding plans, thaws the ice and causes the rabbits to go all runty. Will the
towns' plan to run him out on a rail succeed before their villages are back to
feuding? Will he once again smear the bride-to-be? Or will they go off to raise
rabbits of their own?
It’s also a musical.
Of course, since I’m fine and dandy with this, you bet your
boots this inspiration came to me.
Now, where did it come from?
Partly this. One of my favorite documentaries, all about the
cold, including a bit on Frederic Tudor, the so-called “Ice King,” who
pioneered commercial ice delivery by harvesting ice off ponds in frozen New
England. He became one of America’s first millionaires when being a millionaire
meant something. So that’s in the background.
I’m not sure where the peanut-butter came from.
So yes I’m going to write this. Not now; I’ve got other
projects in the hopper. Nice to have an idea in the can, though.
No comments:
Post a Comment