"Marcelle" Proust is blogging. What is weird is that I had a dim idea of writing a short story from the viewpoint of a Marcelle Proust from Paris, Texas and paralleling (but nowhere NEAR as long) some of the ideas in Proust ouvre. My idea was to give her a modern malady like chronic fatigue syndrome. Take my idea and run with it. Ideas can't be copyrighted. Ideas, like butterflies, are free.
It is damn near impossible to come up with a really original idea these days. In my work in process, Festival Madness, I had someone flying an ultralight with Monarch butterfly wings and damned if that exact machine wasn't in the paper six months later. I had a lowlife named Earl before the TV show in another, still unpubbed, novel. I set a crime in a parking garage in Cambridge, MA and months later, there was a crime in the parking garage. Last night a woman in my writing group mentioned that a famous mystery novelist is setting a book in the Baltic. Hey, that's my territory. It's taking forever and a day to get these books published, and every day I feel more unoriginal. Next thing I know, someone else will be blogging Proust in Foxborough. Merde.
Second hand Odette