DREAMS AND MELANCHOLY
I hate Monday mornings. I don’t suppose I’m the only one in the world who’s ever said that. But I am passionate in my hatred. First of all, to make it clear, I am not a morning person! I want to stay up late like the grownup I am, and sleep late, too. Because I do love my sleep! Second, I’ve undoubtedly lost precious hours of it on Sunday night trying to extend the weekend to the last possible moment. Third, Monday means…work, and commuting, often driving in the snow and ice, and facing another week. To be clear, I don’t hate work, just going to work. I get the shakes just thinking about it. Consider the entire scenario, and you get why I despise Monday mornings. It’s something I and my character Glory have in common in my novel PERSEPHONE IN HELL.
Glory is a 15 year old beauty who hates going to school. She’s skipped so often, the principal finally calls her mother who, for the first time in seven Mondays, makes sure Glory leaves the house in time for the first bell. In many ways a typical teen, Glory is not dressed for winter.
“It was the dawn of miseries. Even the goddess Aurora herself, pulling the sun through the heavens in her chariot of gold and red, couldn’t have wished for that particular daybreak. Glory trudged down the snowy street in her mini skirt and open-toe platform shoes to school. She walked on the edge of the street in the slush. Dirty lumpy piles of it frozen everywhere. Bad enough it’s Monday. Who wouldn’t despise Mondays? Waking up at six a.m. on any day of the week is pitiless. But Mondays are downright abusive. It’s still dark out. What kind of farmer do people think I am? I need my sleep. The north wind showed no mercy.”
Glory hitchhikes her way down the frozen road. She finds a ride in the first truck to come along. In a trance, she fantasizes about Robin Hood (she’s into Robin Hood, definitely!) as the truck driver who can’t believe his good luck gets warm.
“Glory’s intense violet eyes strained to see through the foggy glass. Robin stopped hiding in Sherwood just long enough to save Maid Marion from being forced to marry the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. Where is Nottingham, anyway? And where was good King Richard when you needed him? Off to fight the silly Crusades. That’s a man for you. You can’t count on good winning out. You can’t count on men being good. And you couldn’t count on any man, not even a lionhearted king, to protect you from the slime bags of the world. No man but Robin, of course, and he isn’t real. You can’t keep a real man from forcing his way on you.”