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07 September 2007 @ 10:01 pm
I always wanted someone to tell me that I had dreamboat eyes.  
A few years back, there was that A Wrinkle in Time miniseries, which I watched with much trepidation (mainly because of Gregory Smith, aka Ephram on my beloved Everwood). Eventually I had to stop watching, since the fact that Calvin didn't have red hair turned out to be the least of its problems. But at one point I found myself looking at the screen in surprise. A penny had just dropped; I'd had an epiphany about a story I was writing.

"Oh my god," I said. "The main character is Charles Wallace."

It's been years, probably, since I've read any of the Time Quartet. It's strange to remember books that were once a part of your daily life, as much like friends as anyone in your real life (or more, if you were prone to having "best friends" who would steal your stuff and hit you), when you haven't read them in so long. But the Murry family might have been my first literary obsession; there were books I reread before them, of course, but they were the first characters I followed from book to book, startled and pleased to see them in an unexpected line or two, happy or nostalgic to see how they'd turned out as their lives went on. A Swiftly Tilting Planet, to the best of my recollection, is the first book I read in connection with a particular time of year, built into holiday rituals (it was my Christmas book). Fortinbras and The Tempest were colored by those books before I knew a thing about folios and bad quartos. And even beyond the conscious memories are the ways in which those characters and books found their way into my dreams and thoughts and sentences (I say "it's an 'it's the weather on top of everything else' kind of day" rather a lot), even the stories that I used to write. I'm always stunned and grateful that little bundles of paper can change my life, but I'm especially grateful today.