Writing practice at last?

I wish I understood what it is that motivates me to write. I've felt dead in the water for months now, and all of a sudden, these last couple of weeks, it's alive again. Maybe it was a form of depression, maybe somebody stole my mojo ;-), or perhaps my muse has returned. At any rate, I'm getting back on the ball...


I"ve been digging back into Imperfect hope, working on redepthing (there's a new word) the main characters. Though I'd done a rather detailed character history for both, I felt like there's something missing, hence the 'redepth'. Besides just adding some details, I've decided to spark my interest again with writing some bits and blurbs from their pasts as writing practice. So here goes, a little bit from Cerryn's life, well before she became a questor of Valnor...



Cerryn peeked out from behind the heavy tapestry, trying to remain inconspicuous as she watched the visitor. It wasn't difficult, she and her older brothers and sisters had found dozens of hiding places throughout the keep, and this was one of her favorites. From here, she could listen in on the courtly activities, though most times she understood little of what the grown-ups spoke of. Usually her older siblings would be discovered, either too fidgety or noisy, often they just grew bored and would run off after each other to play or study. Cerryn would keep quiet and listen for much longer than any of them.


From her secret vantage point, the young redheadwas able to listen intently as her mother and father spoke with the stranger. He was short, his hair was cut severly, with a clean shaven face. From where she hid, she could barely hear any of them speaking in their hushed tones, something rarely done withing the great hall. Cerryn knew that her father held an important position within the western confederacy, and that many came to him for advice on all sorts of matters. The great hall was rarely empty of observers, if there was business that needed to be kept quiet, they would meet in the library upstairs. This meeting, and in fact, this visitor seemed different. Both her father and mother seemed unusually deferential. It was especially odd considering the plain attire of the stranger, simple homespun breeches and tunic more fitting to a weary traveler than one meeting with one of the confederacy's councilmen.

"Cerryn, come here and meet the abbot-questor" called her mother. For a moment, she wondered how her mom knew she was there, and for a few seconds, the red haired youngster tried to stay very still behind the tapestry. When Cerryn peeked out again, she saw all three adults were looking her way. She grimaced, wondering if she were in trouble, and stepped out from behind the wall hanging that depicted the hills that overlooked their ancestral lands. Then, she recognized what her mother had called the stranger, abbot-questor. There would be only one reason the abbot-questor would be visiting the keep. Her heart leapt with hope, even as she kept her face calm. Her feet betrayed her excitement though, and the 6 year old almost ran to meet the legendary sword master of the Valnorian questors...

Description

I have found that descriptions are all too often a cliche, especially when I begin working on a project. The bar is smoky, the shadowy figure lurks in the corner, He shook in his boots like a wet puppy dog. I do notice, however, that as I get into a project, my descriptive voice tends to reject the cliches more easily. This is a thing I need to practice.

My secondary project, Ghost Singer, arose in part from a descriptive exercise where I decided to describe a singer's voice 10 ways. It was actually one of 2 similar exercises, another one I spent time listening to one singer for a while, then trying to convert the feel of the voice to words on a page. This exercise however, was a series of metaphors and similes. Two in particular struck me as story worthy. See if you can find your own story in these descriptions...

1. His voice was like a fleece lined denim jacket flecked with lint, old and ratty, but full of warmth.
2. Her song rang through the convent courtyard, birds took to wing as the echoes startled them from their slumber.
3. He sang off key, like an old pickle, just a bit too sour.
4. She began so gently and melodiously that the forest stilled its own leaves so as to be able to hear each note as if it were the only one.
5. He rang the bell, then matched the tone with an ascending sequence of clear notes, held long past the point of breathlessness.
6. She held her hand over her mouth and sang quietly, afraid to be heard, even though her notes were balanced.
7. He finished with a bellow, the roar of an ox driven to pull a too heavy cart.
8. She held her note, wavering, siren like, until the last echo of the pipe organ drifted into the night, then collapsed her voice in a rasping gasp for air.
9. He raised his voice in a tinny falsetto, shrieking his words against the clatter of the bar. A single drunk raised one eyebrow in irritation at the harshness of the note.

10. Her dulcet tones echoed through the graveyard, wide and soft and bright, such that even the wraiths of the night came forth to listen in awe, through the song each ghostly spirit remembered a time before the pain and despair of their existance. When the song ended, they held the joy for a heartbeat, then the anger returned stronger with jealousy.

Numbers 4 and 10 interested me the most, and after working on them more, became the root of a character description, a protagonist whose voice could still a forest, or calm the walking dead. From there, I needed a plot, a source of the power of her voice, and a setting. So, Inn of the Stumbling Friar, are you ready for the ungrateful dead that rise from the past to haunt you?

Clear skies,
Jim

Writing and writing

Writing exercise can be a chore, or they can be fun. Today I worked on setting practice, the workshop assignment asked me to recall a place where I once lived, and describe it in 2 or 3 pages. I chose Bedford Massachusetts, where I lived in the late 60's. I was in 6th and 7th grade then.

The exercise forced me to draw deeply from memory, and in order to avoid turning it into a dry recital of facts, I had to depict personal aspects of the setting. It ended up being 3 pages, and the exercise does encourage me to go back and polish it, something I'll do. For now, it's a rough draft type reading.

I'm supposed to give the setting enough feel that you can picture it in your mind. Use more than just sight, and don't just get sentimental. Did I write enough to bring you into my old town, what's missing.

Like I said, this is first draft. But go ahead and read it at http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dfmh4kks_2grt9mf . Please comment as well, this is me asking for critique. I'd prefer comments in the comment field below, but because of the nature of googledoc storage, you can add comments directly to the file (I can even go back and reject them, especially if you do something like use a red font!)

Clear skies,
Jim