No More Blue Roses.
It's the name of my new book. Had you asked me why only a week ago, when the phrase kept banging into my psyche like the endless lies of the (burning) Bush administration (you saw that coming, didn't you?), I would have told you that I didn't know why.
... But now, I know.
And I'm rather stunned.
After all, I don't know what a blue rose is - I don't particularly care. Horticulture is the last thing I was thinking about; this book is about families, people, and how self-interest is ultimately self-defeating. It's dark drama about broken people and high comedy about suicide. Honestly, it has nothing to do with roses of any color.
Or so I thought.
This morning, as I was about to start on the third chapter - I past the 10,000 word mark, BABAY! - I thought it might be interesting to find out just what a blue rose might be.
And I found this.
Turns out a blue rose is an elusive goal, a holy grail, a rare find. Something special and beautiful, fragile and exceptional.
And in the course of this novel (should I have the fortune to finish it), the characters learn that they aren't so exceptional and rare, to be catered to and and cared for. They are, in fact, very common and their commonplace lot puts them back on earth with everyone else. They learn that self-interest and self-absorption is poison. We focus on ourselves to our own detriment; only by helping others are we, too, helped.
By the book's end, there are no more blue roses.
I swear... Remember when I used to write plays with lots of dick and fart jokes???