Slowly, slowly recovering from a bout of the stomach flu, which made reading impossible for several days. Then, of course, along came a new work assignment, which further backburnered everything. There are books that I'm waiting to read (When Autumn Leaves, Tam Lin); however, I'm working back with books that can be put down after each page--otherwise known as writer's instruction manuals.
I'm filling the space with movies. I watched the entire extended version of The Lord of the Rings and was amazed all over again at how well Peter Jackson translated the books onto the screen. Watching the trilogy, like reading the books, reminds me of why I want to write. I think those books made me fall in love with little bits of England that I've never seen, but for which I long. There is much more in the story, but the love of place is evident in so many choices the characters make, both for good and ill. Do attachments with the physical space around us form as readily today? For years, the place that felt most like home for me was the driver's seat of my car, to the extent that I was physically depressed rather than excited at the prospect of a new vehicle.
It's not just the places that become home, of course. I'm writing this in the computer room, two dogs kenneled behind me (work is being done on the house, so they're being kept out of harm's way) on top of a desk that is covered with photos and toys and shiny silver pencils. My husband is threatening that we'll soon have upgraded machines and new software and I'm thinking about having to reestablish connections to websites and learn new software--we'll moving our electronic house, with all the effort and dislocation that implies.
It's probably the days spent on the couch with the remote close to hand that have me thinking about home and hearth and the way stories establish these. I'd be interested in hearing about any stories that create in you the same feeling of being at home and whether it's something you enjoy in fiction.