The End . . . Or is It?

Over the weekend I finished the rough draft of a book I've been working on for more than a year, and yet this morning feels like every other Monday.  No great sense of accomplishment or closure or loss.  Finishing the rough draft of my first novel, I'd mourned for days--missing the characters, the story, the experience of writing and daunted by the idea of editing.  It seems odd to feel nothing upon finishing this manuscript, but I suppose I've come to realize the ending of a rough draft is no ending at all.

I'm planning to let the manuscript rest for a couple weeks (or a month if I can hold off that long) before I start reading it.  In the meantime I'll be working on short stories, a form I haven't worked in outside a few college assignments long ago.  Writing shorts should be good practice, and I'm hoping it will help me tighten my plot pacing.  I'm really looking forward to a few weeks of something different.

Photo by Alex Basnett

Since it's a Monday like all other Mondays, I'm bound to offer a writing prompt.  Imagine a scenario that, in life, you'd consider an ending and begin your writing exercise there.  You might take the narrative backward and show how things arrived at that end, or you might re-think the "ending" as a beginning of something new.  Play around with the idea without too much directed thought and see where it takes you.  

Joshua Bell

Yesterday I attended a performance by Joshua Bell.  My last-minute tickets landed me in the second row, where I could see his shifting expressions--the almost grimacing tightness around eyes melting as the cadence mellowed.  I could hear his breath flow into the music.  Sometimes I'd realize I wasn't seeing him at all but I'd gone off somewhere, following the music into dreamed-up worlds.  Sometimes I'd wonder what he experienced as he played.  I supposed he was wholly in the moment--in the music--just as I lose myself in writing on those days when the writing flows.

 Though it's very different from yesterday's performance, I like this take on "Eleanor Rigby".  Have a listen and jot down the images that come to mind.

Found phrases as story starters

Stories surround us, but sometimes, drawn deep into our work, we lose touch with those lively inspirations.  The imagination needs fuel.  If you neglect filling it for too long, you'll wind up with the dreaded empty page glaring back at you.  Personal experience is an excellent catalyst for writing, but I often prefer to search for ideas outside myself.  One technique I've found useful is glancing through newspapers or online sources to find phrases that spark my curiosity and call to mind a character or setting.

I've pulled a few posts from craigslist as examples :

Regarding wolves:
My grandfather, a Native American from Browning, ranched in the area near there. He told me that the occasional cattle killed and eaten by wolves was an honor- a very small sacrifice for stealing the land from them. 

Woman's ruby ring:
Beautiful dark ruby ring surrounded by diamonds selling for half the value due to financial needs.

Sunbeam Faces:
Let Sunbeam Faces put a smile on your face - young and old alike. You can be made into a fairy princess, a puppy, a tiger or even a super-hero. 

Lost Shepherd Husky Mix Male:
Lost dog, about a year old, big and friendly! He is not fixed and has a tan mask. Our children miss him dearly. He goes by Ollie. Please help us find him; he looks like a wolf and is very healthy. He does not bite and has had his shots. Please do not mistake him for a wild animal and shoot him.  

Feeling inspired?  I sense stories waiting in each of these . . . And I'm thinking I might call Sunbeam Faces about being made into a super-hero.  It can't hurt, right?

Tarquinia

Way back in September I promised I'd post some photos and blog about the Etruscan sites I visited this fall.  Rather than overwhelm you with everything at once, I'll focus on Tarquinia today.  Because of its unique tombs, the Estruscan necropolis at Tarquinia has earned recognition on the UNESCO World Heritage List .  I first learned about the Etruscans in an introductory art history class, and the tomb paintings from Tarquinia began my fascination with Etruscan culture.   For over a decade I've been learning about ancient Etruria, the setting of  some of my fiction and homeland of my favorite character.  Setting foot in places that have occupied my thoughts and imagination for so long was exhilarating, and looking back, the experience hardly seems real.   

 

Landscape view from Tarquinia's necropolis

My husband and I hopped on an early train from Rome to the small town of Tarquinia.  A short shuttle-bus ride took us to the city center and the Tarquinia National Museum, which housed an excellent collection of artifacts, sarcophagi, and restored wall paintings.  From the museum we hiked about a mile to the necropolis.  Situated on a hill, the necropolis overlooks the sea in the west and rolling hills and valleys like the one pictured above to the east and south.  The day we visited, the wind roared, dragging low gray clouds and rain over us.  We hurried from one tomb to another like gophers popping in and out of holes to avoid the wet, chilling gusts.

Each tomb is covered by a bunker-like structure with steep stairs leading down to its burial chamber.  The chambers are protected by a plexi-glass barrier, and timed lighting features insure that the paintings are exposed to light only when they are being viewed.  Although houses of the dead, the tombs conveyed a sense of life's continuity.  Music, dancing, feasting, sex--those activities depicted by Etruscan artists more than two thousand years ago remain central sources of human delight.  Examining those tombs, I didn't wonder about religious symbolism or the mysteries of Etruscan culture.  I thought about how alike people are.  The distance of decades or miles or ideologies doesn't alter the basic attributes and experiences of being human.

Detail from Tomb of the Leopards

A Winter Scene

Photo by ArtemFinland

Today's writing prompt:

 Stopping, Hank glanced up.  As white as the snow they were slogging through, the sky seemed apt to dump another eight inches on them.  Jerry trudged on, each step crushing the track they followed.

"People are people, you know," Hank shouted, and the wind whipped his voice back at him. 

 Take the scene from there, and feel free to share what you come up with in the comments section.  I'd really like to know what or whom they're tracking and why. 

Language of Bees

I'm an impulse-reader.  With the best of intentions, I jot down books or authors friends recommend to me.  I make lists of titles and subjects in the news or mentioned on blogs that I think I'll like.  And then, dazzled by shelves and shelves of glorious books, I grab whatever title catches my eye.

The Language of Bees  was my most recent grab.  The ninth novel in Laurie R. King's Mary Russell series, it's the first Laurie King book I've read, and I didn't feel lost without having read the previous eight novels.  Mary Russell, Sherlock Holmes' wife, is sharp-minded enough to match wits with the aging sleuth and calculate the course of a delusional killer.  She's funny, too--in a wry, self-effacing manner.  Russell is an enjoyable character with a distinct voice as you can tell from her blog.  (Yes, Mary Russell has her own blog.  And yes, my characters are a little envious.)

Structurally, the novel takes chances.  A couple of times in the first half of the novel, King shifts from Russell's first-person narration to third-person scenes involving Holmes and Damien Adler without Russell.  Set apart in distinct chapters, the occasional third person narration didn't pull me out of the story.  The scenes between Holmes and Adler enriched the story and actually drew me in more deeply, engaging my empathy.  An extended flashback near the novel's beginning  had the same effect.

Goes to show, you can't be afraid to experiment with structure.    

Christmas is Coming

A dusting of snow on the lawn, short days, and bitter-cold air leave no doubt December's arrived,  but it's hard to believe Christmas is almost here.  Our neighborhood is looking barren this year, and I've done nothing to add any holiday glitz myself.  I haven't so much as hung a wreath on our door. 

Last year we were snowed in over Christmas, and the year before we were stuck at home while my husband recovered from knee surgery.  This year we'll actually get to visit family.  I wouldn't have said this when I was ten, but getting together with people you love is the best part of the holidays.  (A great-big meal of delicious food I didn't cook comes in a close second, though.)

My favorite tradition isn't specific to Christmas, but takes place every time my family gets together for a holiday meal.  Conversation always turns to reminiscence and soon my brother and sister have us all laughing about misadventures from our childhood.  The stories seldom change.  They've become oral tradition--legends my neice and nephew could recite if they wanted to.  The stories link us as a family and link our adult selves with the children we once were.  I listen and add little. The memories aren't mine, but ours, and each story truly belongs to its teller.  My own memories, I keep to myself.

Holidays and family gatherings are frequent fodder for cliched films and stories, but they can be a source of true inspiration.  Take a few minutes and list the first words that spring to mind when you think of Christmas.  Keep your hand moving and don't second guess yourself, this is an exercise in free association.  When you've reached the bottom of a page, go back and select ten words from your list as a jumping-off point for today's writing.