That was the word I grasped for yesterday when a friend asked how my writing was coming along.
The Putty Grampa has morphed into silly putty.
He’s exploded, and pieces are bouncing off my brain.
He started as a simple glob based on less than a thimbleful of my dad’s wispy memories.
I thought I knew where I was going.
But I researched a little history, and now he’s out of control.
I realized that nobody would really care about him outside our family anyway.
So I turned to his wife.
Of course, she’ll have to be a nurse.
She wasn’t in real life.
But that meant more research.
And now I think have a story about two people that nobody in our family will even recognize.
Except their names.
I’ll keep their names.
I’ll throw in a pint of romance and a gallon of danger.
I’ll hurt them both.
I’ll teach them a lesson or two.
And maybe I’ll end up with story that the family will like.
Even if they don’t recognize the characters.
I hope more than the family likes it.
I see a couple blobs up in the tree.