Vultures have a bad reputation. With their bald heads and shadow plumage, they look like the avian Severus Snape. We commonly associate them with roadkill. Their scavenging ways are so pronounced that the word “vulture” encompasses not just the bird, but also refers to a person who exploits others.
Vultures are ugly. They’re greedy. They pick at whatever’s left behind and have even been rumored to possess feats of projectile vomit.
I think they’re great role models. Minus the projectile vomit…and the corrosive stomach acid. (Say no to ulcers).
Writers are a lot like vultures. We pick up the pieces we find lying around, experiences that are discarded and half-remembered, maybe even half-dead, and we digest them, transform them, render them edible and accessible to others. I’ve been thinking about that as I put the finishing touches on my revisions and begin planning Book 2.
So far, I’ve got a bizarre water weapon and hidden kingdoms. I have Cinderella and Catskins, the Wife of Bath’s tale and foxes floating in my head and seeking purchase and meaning. And like some vulture pecking away at dead ideas, I’m desperately trying to find reason/meaning/sustenance in them.
Wish me luck!