Press play.
Consider, if you will, me, aged twelve. I found a blank diary, and I am writing my first novel in it. The novel is called, Amanda's Paradise. The story is about Great-Aunt Amanda, a red-headed lady (I've never written anything without a red-headed lady) who lives in a fascinating mansion few of crazy relics, with a few of her best friends, creates great art, and has people come and go, people who entertain and amuse her. People who realize her power and secretly worship her.
I never figured out a plot to Amanda's Paradise, so there were a lot of descriptions, and then it abruptly ended after about thirty pages.
There was never a plot to that book, but if there were a sound track, it would be Wasted Wine. And the people in the book? They were the people in Wasted Wine. Never mind that I wrote the story thirty years ago. It's alive, now, in South Carolina. My aunt, Lou Buckingham seems to have actually become Amanda of Amanda's Paradise. It's a whole lot of wonderful.
I'm picturing Lou with red hair.
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