Tonight's self-imposed assignment was to write something incorporating the senses. I imagined taking a walk outside in the dark. I managed to use four of the five, but couldn't quite get taste in there. I think the prose is a bit overwrought, and I need to work on varying sentence structure and composition more.
---
The frogs are singing tonight. No one has told them it's winter.
Their voices overlap in the dark: trilling, chirping, rumbling. One speaks from beneath a tree next to the creek trickling toward the bay. Its voice is a deep and throaty bass. Another answers from next to an overturned, weather-beaten canoe. Its response is a sharp and shrill amphibian soprano.
I cross the planks that serve as a makeshift bridge over the creek. My tennis shoes sink into the saturated ground on the other side where the tide has come and gone. A lingering brackish scent hangs in the air. The mud slurps as I lift my feet for each step forward. Moisture seeps through the fabric of my shoes, dampening my socks. I hold out my arms for balance. I'm afraid of tripping in the dark. I should have brought a flashlight, but I wanted the thrill of walking in the dark, wanted that little bit of safe danger afforded by having the warmly lit house just yards away. That's all the distance that separates the comforting civilization of the house from the wilderness, from moss-covered evergreens stretching toward the night sky, coyotes lurking in secret dens, rabbits nestling in overgrown thickets, and frogs singing in chorus from watery hollows.
The air bears the damp chill of spring, thought the calendar says that season is still weeks away. It's the kind of air that just a few degrees warmer or drier would feel balmy. But it isn't a few degrees warmer, and I'm just on the verge of shivering without a jacket. I like this damp cold. I feel primal and elemental as I trudge through the trees to the shoreline of the bay.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Books on Writing: This Year You Write Your Novel
This Year You Write Your Novel
Walter Mosley
This was a fairly surface-level treatment of the writing process and elements of fiction, as it had to be by necessity considering the 25,000-word length. Yet there were some good nuggets of advice, the main being "Write every day and don't stop." Every writing how-to book will tell you that, but I liked hearing it from someone whose books I see on the shelves at Barnes & Noble. May 2010 indeed be the year I write my novel, although I'd also satisfied by a nice pile of short stories.
Walter Mosley
This was a fairly surface-level treatment of the writing process and elements of fiction, as it had to be by necessity considering the 25,000-word length. Yet there were some good nuggets of advice, the main being "Write every day and don't stop." Every writing how-to book will tell you that, but I liked hearing it from someone whose books I see on the shelves at Barnes & Noble. May 2010 indeed be the year I write my novel, although I'd also satisfied by a nice pile of short stories.
A writing exercise
I sat down last night having set myself the task of writing for a minimum of 30 minutes even though I was exhausted. I intended to write a meditative description about how it felt to be exhausted, but my eyes rested on an old stain on the quilt covering the bed in my rented room and my imagination took off for roughly 250 words of fiction.
Hmmm. Looking at this in the light of day it doesn't seem like much, but it felt like quite the accomplishment in my exhausted state last night.
-----
I lie on top of the old patchwork quilt, the one stained with wine from our first night together. I run my finger over the faded brown spot, picturing how my glass tipped when he leaned in to kiss me. I had jumped back and the glass fell from my hand. I had jumped back even though we were sitting on my bed and the magnetic pull of sex was tangible. I had jumped back even though I wanted him. I wasn't accustomed to getting what I wanted.
I fumbled an apology and swung my legs over the side of the bed, intending to go get a towel to clean the spill, but he grabbed my wrist. There was no violence in the movement, merely a gentle insistence that I stay. He pulled me back. I offered no resistance. We fell across the quilt and the wine soaked into my blouse. I threw away the blouse. I kept the quilt.
Was that months ago? Years? How many nights? I lost count when I stopped believing one of them might be our last.
The air in our room is cold. No. Not "our." I correct myself. The air in my room is cold as I lie on top of my quilt, on top of my bed, no longer shared. It occurs to me that I should crawl under the covers but I can't move. I can only lie across the empty bed staring at the wine stain in silence.
Hmmm. Looking at this in the light of day it doesn't seem like much, but it felt like quite the accomplishment in my exhausted state last night.
-----
I lie on top of the old patchwork quilt, the one stained with wine from our first night together. I run my finger over the faded brown spot, picturing how my glass tipped when he leaned in to kiss me. I had jumped back and the glass fell from my hand. I had jumped back even though we were sitting on my bed and the magnetic pull of sex was tangible. I had jumped back even though I wanted him. I wasn't accustomed to getting what I wanted.
I fumbled an apology and swung my legs over the side of the bed, intending to go get a towel to clean the spill, but he grabbed my wrist. There was no violence in the movement, merely a gentle insistence that I stay. He pulled me back. I offered no resistance. We fell across the quilt and the wine soaked into my blouse. I threw away the blouse. I kept the quilt.
Was that months ago? Years? How many nights? I lost count when I stopped believing one of them might be our last.
The air in our room is cold. No. Not "our." I correct myself. The air in my room is cold as I lie on top of my quilt, on top of my bed, no longer shared. It occurs to me that I should crawl under the covers but I can't move. I can only lie across the empty bed staring at the wine stain in silence.
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