I watched an old movie this evening, They Might Be Giants with George C. Scott and Joann Woodward from 1971. It’s the story of a noted jurist (Scott) who goes quietly mad following the death of his wife and comes to believe himself to be Sherlock Holmes. When his evil brother tries to have him committed, the brother brings in psychologist Mildred Watson (Woodward) to evaluate his mental health. Having finally found his Dr. Watson, Holmes is ready for a life and death struggle with his nemesis, the shadowy Professor Moriarty.
I’ve always loved this movie, but find that it strikes a little too close to home for me now. I retired three and a half years ago. I’d like to say that it was write full time, but that’s not true. My wife is dying, slowly, bit by bit, as the disease PLS takes apart her central nervous system. She may live another five years. Or maybe only one more day. I retired to care for her full time, which sounds noble, but isn’t. It’s hard work, and it frustrates more than I want to admit, but the time together is precious.
Which leads me back to the movie. I think of myself as a writer, and have published three books with a fourth coming along nicely. I pretended I was a writer for years (all of my life), but I knew it was a fantasy. Now? Maybe it still is. People, including the fortunate strangers that have read them, tell me that my books are good. Objective reality is hard to come by.
In the movie, his friends call George C. Scott’s character ‘Holmes’, and by the end, he lives up to it. I pray that I can live up to calling myself a writer, but I know I still have much to learn about the craft. I’ve made a few friends to help me on the journey.
The movie’s post credits title card perhaps says best how I see myself as a writer:
The human heart can see what is hidden to the eyes, and the heart knows things that the mind does not begin to understand.
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