I should work on my final, but I'll save that for tomorrow. I'm going to write a story, and I don't know what it's about or whom, for that matter. I don't know yet and I'm going to find out as I write it, disregarding the outlines and plots I've been taught to use for so many years. Maybe then, I'll figure out whether I like it or not, what I'm doing wrong, and if charts and diagrams would truly aid me in my quest to write a story. As if this paragraph weren't disorganized enough, it also serves as a poor advertisement to my plan, and is likely best ignored. Speaking of adverisement, I'm going to post a gigantic art dump soon, with over twenty pictures I've drawn in it.
Glories, petals in powder and cream, grow delicately beside a weathered chest of cherry and brass. Their lives are over, their pink hearts as cold as the valley from which they were plucked, the paled sun a watery beacon in the deep grey sky. A master of thought, a princess of virtue strokes their petals in complacent meditation. Held in a byzantine tangle, led through the throes of some derisory argument. If the moon would appear tonight, she would be lonesome in her witness.
Seven laws and six degrees drew invisible lines through the blue hour. Twenty-two fingers, toes, and eyes altogether, each fixed on a single object of steel by fickle illumination. First was commitment, last was courage, but in the end there would be nothing. No incrimination if it were to progress as intended, not even a single salty drop from a lover's eye. The lover's eyes had been closed forever now, the bitter visage, the tangle of pearls and hair, was to live forever as the last.
What of the betwixt motion, the endless golden field that stretched past the lithe, emerald columns? What of the evening sky? Of the thick, black bust emerging from the west, and slowly looming upon the windowsill, eyes stark as the coal from which they sprung? Yes, he had lessened the golden field. But whatever was left of it had grown tenfold in mind, so vast an expanse that it began to scrape against the sane part, filling the space she had left as well as that which hadn't yet been vacated. It wasn't bad, no, it felt sweet and slow and just as sickening.
THAT'S ALL I CAN MANAGE RIGHT NOW. If you read my blog, please tell me what you think. I need to know what's bad as of yet, or just what could use improvement or whatever you'd care to elaborate upon.
My instant, instinctual reaction is that what you're doing here is playing with style choices as much as you can. I've seen you write very crisp academic stuff mostly up until now, and this here is much more "flowery," if you see what I mean. So do you build a story out of a style? It's possible. Or do you go the other way around? Or both simultaneously? How'm I doin' here?
ReplyDeleteYeah, that's what I was trying to do! I felt like my usual writing style was... too flat and outright. When I write stories, much like when I draw, I like the meaning and events to be open to interpretation, so whatever makes sense to the reader. It's not the best thing to do but it's my only base to work from, the other options tend to tire me so I lose my enthusiasm.
ReplyDeleteTo be honest, I have no clue what I'm trying to do.