paulak_rumin8: (cake face)
I've been trying, again, to get cracking on a writing project. It has been several months. I had a couple of false starts since January. Then, just last week, I caught a whiff of inspiration and pounded out a 3000-word one-shot for I think it's the finest piece I've produced so far. It's unique. I wrote it from the point of view of a lounge-singer/bank robber with mob connections, a live-in girlfriend, and a 5-year-old son. It takes place within a week of when the man ditched his family and didn't see his son again for 25 years.

Believe it or not, it's a canon-faithful backstory to Mark McCormick from Hardcastle and McCormick. Next time I might actually include the title characters in my story.
paulak_rumin8: Hardcaste and McCormick (Pulse Rate)
It begins with a recollection of a scene, which leads to obtaining the footage so as to re-experience that scene, which leads to contemplating, internalizing, and self-narrating the scene, which ultimately leads to a strong inclination to write it. That's what I did today.


Judge Hardcastle surged out of his truck, not bothering to close the door behind him in his haste, not thinking to take the key from the ignition in his distraction. He was peripherally aware that his passenger was following close behind, although she stopped and hesitated a few beats before he did. It figured. She was psychic, after all.

Not until Hardcastle had ventured about three long strides into the brush off the shoulder of the road, poised at the lip of a fairly steep drop-off, did his frantic gaze land on its long-sought object, some twenty feet down.

The judge recoiled viscerally and stopped breathing, convinced for a horrible instant that Millie was right. McCormick hadn't just gone missing. He wasn't just shot.

The kid lay sprawled in an unnatural pose at the base of the ravine, face-up, much too still.

Cold fear cleaved to a single shard of hope to propel the judge forward, and he was descending the hill, grasping at tree limbs and the rocky edifice for support. His breath returned, ragged and labored, only partly due to the physical demands of climbing at his age.

He was still a stone's throw away when he raised his eyes to catch the fear-assuaging sight of the rapid rise and fall of the kid's chest. Where there's breath, there's life, however tenuous it may be. He clambered down and closed the remaining distance with renewed urgency.

The kid still didn't move, didn't turn his head or even blink. His eyes were open at half-mast, dull and unperceiving, swollen under the left where he sported a deep gash matted over with congealed blood.

But it was the blood-soaked patch over his left midriff that drew the judge's grim attention and brought him down heavily on one knee at the kid's side.

Better the gut than the head; it could've been worse. But not much. Hardcastle returned his worried gaze to the kid's face, and there received his reward for his dogged perseverance.

McCormick moved. True, it was only his eyes. Somewhere inside his battered body he rallied enough strength to focus his mind and his sight on the judge. Slowly, ever so slowly, the helpless resignation that had seeped in and consumed him during the course of the bleak night gave way to a reasonable hope that his latest near-miss would be, in the end, a miss nonetheless. He was saved.

He couldn't smile his relief and gratitude; too weak. He could do nothing to remove that haunted look from the judge's weathered face. Just staring back at him wasn't cutting it.

With all that was left in him, McCormick gave his best friend the best reassurance he could hope to offer: a solid wisecrack.

Under his breath, hardly audible, he intoned thickly, "What took you so long?" Then, satisfied with the favorable result of his effort, he closed his eyes and fell fully into the encroaching exhaustion. Hardcastle would manage everything else.
paulak_rumin8: Hardcaste and McCormick (Pulse Rate)
In the interest of pulling myself out of a slump, I visited the site for an old, forgotten favorite of mine, Hardcastle and McCormick. I used to tape those episodes in...let's see...probably about 1990-ish. No, 1991. Summer. It was after my Scarecrow and Mrs. King phase.

Anyway, someone just posted a terrific filler for the season 3 episode called "If You Could See What I See," about a psychic who foresees Mark's apparent "death." Anyone familiar with my fan fiction may recognize the episode title and loosely, the premise, as suspiciously close to a Probe fic I wrote a few years ago. Shameless, I know. was a particular favorite episode of Hardcastle and McCormick. And it guest-starred Rosemary Clooney. Bonus.

This particular fan fiction was such an angst-y, satisfying read, and it was written by another RN like myself, making the medical references gleefully realistic. Oh yes, I recognize your hypovolemic shock! Medically-induced coma during post-op intubation, Dopamine drip titrated to preserve renal perfusion, broken bones being a tertiary concern, after stabilized vital signs, extubation, and infection control (well, it does no good to resolve hypovolemic shock only to succumb to septic shock).

So, a big kudos to Voyager Tip for this one:

One thing led to another, and I was ravaging the Hardcastle and McCormick stories, until I found more great reads. There are quite a few in this fandom, actually. Quite a few very talented authors. The whole thing inspired me to climb into the crawlspace and root out my old VCR tapes with the show on them. I was looking for the Rosemary Clooney ep, in particular. Did I find it? I found the right season and a number of episodes aggravatingly close to this one, but unfortunately, I have tape 45 and tape 47, but no tape 46. Dang it. Well, there's always Christmas to look forward to. I think Season 3 will end up at the top of my wish list.

In other news:

1. I am not now, nor am I soon to be...writing. It's just not happening. The well's dry.

2. Husband's Greek cooking has reaffirmed my faith in his inherent worth as a spouse and as a cook. The man is a genius in the kitchen, I swear.

3. Parker Stevenson day approaches, and anticipation increasingly turns to dread. I hate crowds. The event is too formal and controlled; I won't be able to be natural. I don't shine in these situations. I'd do much better at your average Comic Con, I think. What the hell was I thinking, anyway? Gaaah!

4. I really need something...perspective, I pull out of this funk. Sleep probably would be a good start. I'd better wrap this up and go to bed.


paulak_rumin8: Austin and speck (Default)

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