Blizzard outside, blizzard in my mind, confusion, images without, anxiety within. Is this isolation, distancing, onset of old age... or just lack of inspiration, a fall in productivity? Bear market Pandemonium Stolen words So many questions... Image source: DAIN: Romania Beautonica (In Sepia Tone), 2018
I wrote this back in 2014 as I was working on the beginning of the novel still titled “The Page”. This work carried on over the following five years, and should have been completed here in Berlin, but was not. Some 40,000 words later, it lays still, unfinished and unedited. Should I take another look? There are so many inconsistencies, and plenty of confusion about characters. In this post, one of them, the historian Gabrielle, who, at the time, was central to the story, accuses the author, and other character, Julian, of being an amiable fool, and a fraud. Indeed it felt like a personal accusation.
I then moved on to write “Viktoria Park”, inspired by Berlin, and events further East that are still unravelling today. “Francis’ story” should have followed but was abandoned quickly, as I found myself under increasing pressure from a variety of sources of inspiration. The bulk of my production has been, from then on, short stories, and even flash fiction. I am pondering now what my writing priorities should be.
J’ai donc choisi ces colonnes pour m’exprimer, plutôt que le blogue de notre auteur. Ce n’est pas que je me méfie de cet homme charmant, mais, ici, je me sens plus libre. Mais, d’abord, permettez-moi de me présenter.
Je m’appelle Gabrielle, qui est le nom qui, je crois, autant qu’on puisse s’assurer d’une ressemblance à telles distances, est le plus proche de mon vrai nom, dans une langue encore peu parlée dans votre monde. Je suis historienne, enfin, l’une de plusieurs spécialistes, dans cette partie de votre galaxie. Mon secteur particulier, ou, comme il est peut-être plus précis, mon intérêt propre, c’est l’histoire du vingtième siècle. À ce titre je suis restée dans votre voisinage, disons, pendant quelques années. Mais, me direz-vous, pourquoi ne pas nous dire les faits tels quels sont? Eh bien voilà: je suis arrivée chez vous un peu avant la guerre de 1870 entre la France…
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Thursday photo prompt "Soon we will be back, walking those hills, and finding ourselves, again." It's true, she thought, life is an eternal come back. Simply, we change, not the hills, not the sky. Only us grow old. Or it feels like it. So, we will have to rewrite the story, or is it … Continue reading Vista #writephoto
Thursday photo prompt "This brings back memories..." "Do you mean when we were young?" "O yes, younger in any case, and then so was the world..." "If I were bue..." "like Edward Hopper's afternoon lift the sash to air the breeze let my summer flush your cheek lie supine beneath the soft and gentle … Continue reading Bells #writephoto
She appears suddenly, soon swept away by the camera, behind the violoncellists. Even at a live concert, he has difficulties in seeing her more than fleetingly. Yet he knows her face, a medieval beauty, inspired, aloof, as if out of a distant past. He basked in the symphonic beauty, Tchaikovsky, Alban Berg, Mahler... She's … Continue reading The violin
She knows how much I value her, her role, her character, and she plays hard to get. "You have to show me, not good enough just to say: 'she possessed him, he was what her will dictated.' You have to write it, convincingly, a good two thousand words, at least, showing how much this … Continue reading She knows
Thursday photo prompt Through the snow, through the pixelated mist of our lives, I see him. Writing about him - only the antlers prevent me to say "her" - is another story: precisely. Inspiration is like this vision, looking back at us, shrouded in doubt, shying away from the obvious, a myth. The stag … Continue reading Calling #writephoto #Writerswednesday
“Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it.”
Shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts. People tend to look at successful writers who are getting their books published and maybe even doing well financially and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated. I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits…
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In the past two weeks my writing output (I did not want to say "literary") was badly affected by the collapse of my old Mac, bought in 2009. This was the tool for my writing before and after a first (disk) failure, back in 2018. I was then lucky enough to find a local expert … Continue reading Of a broken box and a small town
Thursday photo prompt Overwhelmed by sorrow, he called for his guardian angel. She came at once, and took him to the cliff to watch the sunset, just the two of them. All at once calmed, reassured, he looked up to her smiling face: then she said: "I know, you feel lonely, but in truth … Continue reading New #writephoto