What’s Yours Is Mine


I’m driving back from a wonderful long weekend away. Passenger-ing actally. We attended an incredible wedding. I have been to a lot of weddings and this one was truly extraordinary. The ceremony was blissfully quick. The reception was held 47 paces from my hotel room.  The party, complete with a singer and steel drum, overlooked the ocean. Insert great food, fun people, loud music, and bourbon. It was unbeatable!

(Oh no.  I hope no one is awaiting sappy “you could see the love between them” drivel. Wrong blog.)

Now that I am writing,  I feel a little like a vampire trying to feed off of everyone and everything around me. There was a photographer last night at the wedding.  One of four photographers. She was utterly fascinating.  My main character has a complicated relationship with her camera.  (Does that sound dirty?  It isn’t meant to.) I stalked this woman all night. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I took four times as many pictures of her as I did the bride and groom. Literally four times as many.
I took and took from her all night. The musculature of her forearm, the tilt of her waist as she leaned back to frame a shot, how she set her chin when she checked her images — I took it all and I’m going to use it.

When I’m done with Circling I should probably look that photographer up and send her a copy.  What is the etiquette for borrowing somebody’s essence?