Truman Capote

All posts tagged Truman Capote

How do I tell if this panic is abject?

Published February 22, 2016 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

The weirdness of my conscious brain is only out crazied by my unconscious brain. (Suspend, for a moment, my general understanding that my post-coma brain still can’t determine whether or not I’m in an agreed upon reality or perhaps dead and am I trying to get myself out of purgatory.

When I’m asleep, my brain decides to go all “Eye of the Tiger” and find some weird crap to haunt my waking hours.

The other night I dreamed that my dearly departed friend Steve handed me a fish to give to Anderson Cooper.  We were at a party in a house that often appears in my dreams. The house is an amalgam of I house I lived in when I was first married and of the house I grew up in, spliced together with a house owned by my Aguilar relatives for many years, and the large front room of Steve’s house.

We were hosting a party and for some reason their were many fish, some cooked, some in a display and some just hanging around in a tub full of ice. Steve handed me a fish (raw with head) to take to Anderson Cooper who was upstairs milling around in the parlor.

I have no idea where that came from and as I pondered this I discovered that Harper Lee had passed away.

Now Steve and I often likened our friendship to that of Harper (Nell) Lee and Truman Capote.

It would not at all surprise me if these three got together and gave my brains a gentle poke to influence my dream. I think Faulkner had a hand in that as a fish played a large part in my favorite work of his. In it the fish symbolized death.

While that is, indeed, weird I had an even stranger dream. In this one, my Amanda Friend’s husband, AOG had entrusted me to take care of his 32 foot black python.  (You may be thinking, “Freud much?” But you wouldn’t if you knew him.) Now for some reason I was in the front room of the aforementioned house and I was watching cats gambol about in the backyard. (The backyard was Steve’s)  I got so distracted by the cats that I completely forgot about the python. For days. The python did not starve to death, but did die of thirst and when AOG showed up, I had to find the dried python husk, and for some reason I thought that pouring water on it would help.  AOG was very nice about it but clearly I was at fault.

I woke up with an intense feeling of panic.

Then I read about how well Trump did in the latest caucus. I’m not trying to be funny.   I then went and told my roommate that I would get the vodka if he would find some chocolate cheesecake because apparently the end is nigh.

My parochial education tells me that no one knows the time and place of the second coming. I just want enough of a heads up to sip some Grey Goose Orange and have a rich dessert.

I somehow think too much fat and sugar is going to be the least of our concerns in the very near future.

It’s not working

Published January 22, 2016 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I did not get called in for a specific job today; my plan was to write and start the tidying journey of the room I lovingly refer to as Mt. Crapmore and here it is nigh on to noon, CST, and I have gotten as far as reading my email.

My Amanda Friend says that I should listen to my conscience and subconscious, both of whom are on in blanket fort on the couch, and rest and nap.   It’s tempting.

A bazillion years ago my brother answered a Myspace posting asking what he thought my job would be if I wasn’t involved in theatre. He said, “True Crime Novelist.” (I know, how can it be both True and Novel? Truman Capote and Erik Larson are masters of the genre. My copy of In Cold Blood is  staring at me right now.  It would definitely be a good day to catch up on my reading.)

I think that is definitely a good job for me. I am interested in research and True Crime and after listening to what is meant to be spooky, crime drama podcast that somehow made cult murders sound droning and boring, I know that the genre need a specific voice.  I’m just not doing very well at the writing without a real deadline thing.

I think I may  have a severe case of the crummies. I don’t feel 100%.  Maybe if I had something that would drag the muse out if its cage and get it going, I would be able to jump right into it. How do I find a worthy story?

Well, check the crime articles on Huffington Post (because I have no other source of information)

  1. The actor who voices Squidward on  Spongebob Squarepants has been arrested for DUI. Interesting, but I don’t want to read a whole story, much less write one, about it.
  2. Coco Austin shares a bikini picture. How is that a crime?

With stories like this to chose from, I went to cold case button. The one that grabbed my attention for the longest amount of time is the case of four bodied found encased in steel drums and burked in New Hampshire.  The deaths occurred over 30 years ago and have been ruled homicides. (because no one dies of natural causes and is ceremoniously sealed in a barrel)  The bodies are of an adult woman and three female children between the ages of 1-11. The adult and two of the children  are linked by mitochondrial DNA, so they are related, but the nature of the relationship, as is the identity of the third child is unknown.

Advances of forensic science may lead to finding the identities of these people.  (You will note I do not explain the process. My math skills make my science look great.)  Article Details here.

In my opinion, the story is in the third child; who she is and how she wound up with the people that caused her to be killed.   There are stories in the whole event, the circumstance and the identities. I think the mystery is in the most obvious unknown. (I’m not dead sure what I meant by that.)


And I know crazy

Published July 14, 2015 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I have a bad case of the f#$$k its.  I’m not surprised. I’ve gotten some challenging and disappointing news as of late and I am still rehabing my ankle from my Birthday mishap. Sometimes there are things that yank me out of my slug nest because  I know that someone, somewhere might be waiting to hear what I have to say about that topic.

Many people know that I find the Great Gatsby  insufferable. I am also not a big fan of Pride and Prejudice, mainly because I want to smack Darcy right in his smug face. I am just now finding my appreciation of Jane Eyre.  I am, however, a huge fan of Flannery O’Conor, William Faulkner, John Steinbeck and  Harper Lee.

Much of my appreciation of Harper Lee comes from her relationship with Truman Capote. (He inspired the character Dill in To Kill a Mockingbird.)

I am also a big fan of the friend who gave Harper Lee a year’s salary so she could focus on writing for that year. It was during that year that she wrote to Kill a Mockingbird.

People are now waiting with bated breath to read her second book, Go Set a Watchman, which is a sequel to her classic tome.

Those who have read enough to opine are getting all Annie Wilkes about the future of Atticus Finch.  (Also, her brother, Jem, has died but no one is really whipped up into a frenzy about THAT.)

Readers are offensensitive because it is revealed that Atticus Finch is a racist.

Really? An old man in the south in the 1950’s is a racist? That comes as a huge shock to me.

What I find interesting is that Harper Lee wrote this novel before she wrote To Kill a Mockingbird.  What that means to me, who fancies herself a writer, is that Harper Lee created characters with rich, full lives and wrote their story as it was in a point in time. Then she went back 20 years in those character’s histories and wrote another. As I say over and over and over, characters are a summation of every thing that has ever happened to them in their whole lives.

I call this the Frozen Burrito Theory. Every bean in every burrito that a character has every eaten leads them to the momen in which they are seeing. If you unwrap every burrito, you find a million stories in each layer.  The layer that was To Kill a Mockingbird created the Atticus Finch that is in Go Set a Watchman. 

Stop getting all crazy, America.  It’s not Harper Lee’s Cocka-doody Fault that someone tipped your sacred cow.

That’s a lot of metaphor. (Sheep!)