I could leave the FDK with the above--that's completely how I am feeling--but...well. Then I couldn't gush. And I like to gush. Especially when I am as moved as I am by a story
(little guy placed here to show all of the raw emotion that I am just
loving so far).
Jimmy to James. Jimmy Olsen to James Olsen. Office go-getter to Lois' only link to Clark/Superman/Righting Her Life. Oh, how times have changed. I really enjoyed the transformation of Jimmy in these first two sections. And I admire that he was the one--the only one--who saw the wrong, saw Clark hurting, and actually
tried to help. Didn't care about the consequences. Knew what he had to do. Did it.
But now...now I really don't admire the place that Jimmy is in. Being The Link--The Go Between. He knows how much is at stake for Clark concerning Lois, wants to protect him. Also though, he knows that maybe this isn't his place.
There was a lot hinging on this meeting with Lois for Jimmy. Like he stated:
"Because,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly, “if I tell him that Lois Lane wants to see him…there’s no way he won't say yes."
It all rests on Jimmy. Wow. Everything from here on out that happens can essentially be traced back to how Jimmy handles Lois. What he tells her. What information he allows her to have.
I completely enjoyed this part for how huge, how important, this meeting was. Yes, I can't deny that I was hoping for Clark--for that moment when they see each other again--to take place. Deep down I am reading for
that moment. But the story needs to be built upon. The emotion that you are so amazing at creating, can't be created without depth.
So totally, take all the time that you need to give us Clark. It's got to feel right--it's got to fit into the story. And speaking of the story, I-Can-NOT-Wait-For-More!
Laura
Oh and needed to mention:
The world tilts around her. Shakes and trembles and swirls so that the glass of iced tea falls to its side with a resounding clatter and dark tea mingles with ice cubes to draw a map of a world she’s never seen across the cracked tabletop. Her hands are as cold as those sticky cubes, pale and nerveless, and when she looks up, she thinks that maybe she will fall apart into just as many pieces (just as much of a mess) as her tea; maybe her own fragments will map out a truth she’s never admitted.
How beautiful--what spectacular imagery!
I've come back to this paragraph a few different times. Hard to let it go of it. It's inspiring how creative it is
.
