So, I went over to my nephew’s last night. (FYI: He’s five years old, brilliant and handsomely mischievous. Top of the line tot, all the way. No Aunt-bias speaking here at all.)
He had a bucket of little plastic soldiers, hundreds of them in a dozen or so different battle stances. Well, we started naming them. (FYI: Trouble brews whenever an author is asked to start naming things.)
Well, as expected, with tee-tiny soldiers Joey, Philip, Charlie and Thomas came tee-tiny backgrounds. We’re talking full, technicolor character bios blazing across the screens of my woefully neglected imagination.
Not wanting to warp my dear nephew, I shared none of soldier Joey’s childhood woes on the shores of a bitterly cold Lake Superior.
Philip’s run-ins with the law when he was but a wee teen were tucked neatly out of sight.
Charlie’s pregnant girlfriend and his oh-so clueless wife were secrets left in the dark.
And, needless to say, the butterflies in Thomas’ lower belly whenever Commander Joe marched by were not touched with a ten foot pole.
I think I need some help.
Post-Note: Beware the fiction writer who’s been unable to write. Melodrama will be found everywhere.