Rambling- There's no place like home...

There’s no place like home, Dorothy says as she clicks her heels and magic happens.

Go back to Kansas, and clean up that mess that Toto left in my yard, Dorothy.

Home is a different place for many people. For some people, it is a brick and mortar building where they raise their family. For some it is a fond memory of a building they grew up in. A writer’s (insert artist’s, if needed) home is inside his brain. All of those things we see with family, friends, and co- workers become a part of our home.  Hundreds of tabs open to favorites while hundreds more are opening by the second while we try to keep up with everything we see and wonder about. It’s like having a pop up blocker that’s turned off and you’re browsing porn when your boss walks in. I’m better powering down than trying to close all those tabs that keep opening faster than I can close them.  

We store these things for later use. When I’m watching my wife comb her hair it’s not only because she’s probably naked, but it’s because I may need to describe a scene in a book where our hero is watching someone who is combing their hair. Why? I don’t know, but it can happen. As a professional, it is my duty to be honest to my readers, and in order to do so I have to share a little bit of my home with them.  For those of you unfamiliar with an artists world, this may seem strange, so please allow me to elaborate.

I write a story, and in order to get readers to keep reading more, I have to make them come back.  I can’t just write: “She combed her hair while he watched.” That could be taken wrong.  Why is he just watching her comb her hair? Is he even in the same room?  Is he just outside a window?

Don't worry he only comes in if you invite him.

Now, if I say, “He found himself hypnotized by the way she held her head to the side while brushing her hair. He watched in silent awe as her hair brushed against her bare back like waves lapping at the shore on a moonlit beach.”  Now, not only do I come off as having had some sort of knowledge of watching the elusive female in the wild, but I have effectively communicated that this guy is obviously in an intimate setting with someone he cares enough about to gaze upon her the same way people view one of nature's most amazing events.  

By placing my character in a familiar setting, I am not only conveying a relatable scene to my reader, but I am admitting that I am perfectly content just watching my wife brushing her hair. I’ve done it before and will do it many more times in my life. It is a thing of beauty and it is the type of image I want in my favorites. I can close my eyes right now and see it; I bet I could even trace the tattoo below her neck and not even have to touch her. That’s how confident I am in my home.

I’ve got four kids and a wife I am crazy about, so there’s a lot of memory used on my hard drive already.  I hate dates and appointments, but remember the way the moon light illuminated her face when she stood up on her toes to kiss me for the first time.  I can’t remember what time I got married, but I can still feel my wife’s hand in mine as I slipped a ring on her slender finger while looking into those brown eyes that always make me feel like drowning would be a perfectly acceptable death.  I can’t tell you how many pounds and ounces my kids weighed when they were born, but I remember the way they smelled and squirmed when I held them the first time and how tiny those little fingers are when they are just out of the package.  

There are plenty of times I appear to be “out of the moment.” Perhaps I seem distracted, but please know, I’m secretly banging nails on walls to hang that moment in the living room of my castle. I am the king of my castle, after all, so I’ll hang that frame wherever the fuck I want to hang it!

It may be in ruins, but it's a castle. 

-Cory Cline