Saturday, May 1, 2010

Waltzing Is Easy!

You just have to find the rhythm, see?

(because I'll take any opportunity to throw in some Renoir... :P)

Same whole deal with writing.  You just have to find the "rhythm."  For me, each story has had its own.  I've always been able to imitate many different authors' rhythms--styles.  Finding my own...not so easy, eh?  I'm like one of those actors, who never seem to get OUT of character.  You wonder if they actually are a person at all outside of their different voices, accents, impressions, etc.

I think I found my personal voice in Allemande, but I'm certainly not limiting myself to it.  I've got a slightly different voice in Forewarned.  Something a bit more period-appropriate.  Something more values-appropriate.  Of course, in a book like Allemande where themes of music, beauty, modernity, pain, thoughtfulness, und so weiter, you need to take some time saying things.  Everything you write had to be poetic.  Here, it's come out sounding a little more 1700s-ish, and a little less raw.  Less electric.  It's not wrong, and it's not bad, it's just different tastes.  Like we have different rhythms in music we like, styles, same in writing/reading.  

You're going to hear a lot about writing and books for awhile here, I'm thinking.  Honestly, just the feel of being "back in the swing of things" (hee hee) consumes my every waking thought.  Of which there are several, as ideas are keeping me up at night, too!  :)  

And so, I'm off to finish Chapter 2, leaving you with another quote.  

'“I knew that stab would take awhile to kill ‘im, poor soul, but didn’t expect him to last this long.”  He pressed two calloused fingers to the boy’s white throat.  I watched his cracked lips mouth numbers as he counted the beats.  Sitting back, he gestured to the shawl’s fringe.  “Clever way of moving ‘im, that." 
“Thanks,” I said, dropping to my knees beside him.  “Can we save him?”  I began rolling up my sleeves, but faltered as I noticed his stare.  “That is the point, right?”
“It’s one thing to ease a man’s going,” he began, letting out his words slow and careful.  “It’s another to save him.  What could we do with him if he lived?  The commander, not to mention Campbell, couldn’t know.”
“But—” I felt my heart sink as I gazed at the boy.  Blue veins stood out under the skin on his clenched knuckles.  He was trying to hold to life by holding to his strength.  “He deserves to live.  You may be bound to my…my father,”  the word tasted poisonous, “but I’m certainly not!  I’ll save him, with or without your consent.  I’m asking for your help—or at the least, whatever medicines and supplies we have on board.”
The sailor worked his mouth back and forth, weighing the cost and chance.  I still felt my spirits leap with each lungful of air the young soldier pulled in.  So strange the tiny miracles you never notice until they’re all you have left.
“Got a handkerchief?”  Morris asked suddenly.' 

AMZi x x x x x

PS :: Been listening to this on an eternal loop, nonstop, for like the last two hours.  Something about it just kills me, it's so gorgeous!

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