Last night I had one of those moments.
I don't know if you've ever had one yourself, but its that want that bubbles up in you when you read a story or see one acted out that you wish with pretty much everything in you that you had written. And don't laugh, but this metaphysical yearning in me was caused by an episode of Cold Case.
At my house, watching Cold Case on a Monday is just something we all do lately. It's right after dinner, it's the only thing on, etc. etc. We've had the same thing happen with Bones on Tuesday nights, or CSI on Wednesday. What can I say? We all have a penchant for formulaic crime drama.
Last night we were watching an episode with a murder from 1945. As I said to my mother, that's a really really REALLY cold case. But as some of you may know, the 1940s are probably my favourite decade. It's something about the way people dress, the quality of film, photos and artwork and also the way the world was just changing from a super innocent place at the turn of the Century to a place that had seen more evil and destruction than anyone could have ever imagined 45 years later. That's one person's lifetime. And this episode of Cold Case really captured that for me. And it did what I've struggled to do with my novel. It spread the word... take notice; True love does not conquer all.
I won't go into detail of what happened in the episode because I know that some of you might not have seen it. But that final scene, on the platform at the train station when the ex-Nazi who had been impersonating a Jew begged his American journalist girlfriend to say that she could still love him though she knew what he had done? It took my breath away. There was such intensity, such... realism. And I wanted to write it but the moment passed too quickly.
Plus, I am pretty sure that is plagiarism.