Saturday, January 29, 2011

Story time

I've been working on a story. I never really thought about writing a book until Casey told me I might be well equipped for it. It'll have to be fantasy, tho. I deal well with the mysteriously macabre, and darkly beautiful; I can't help it, Thomas Newman pulls it right out of me. I know I'm not supposed to sneak you any previews but I've never been good at concealing surprises. I MAY have to share my favorite excerpt...

I'll not tell you the title...but I will explain that it is a cross between certain fairy-tales with remnants of their stories scattered throughout mine like broken Christmas orbs of different colors swept into a mason jar for the reader to see and pick out at will. Hopefully you like it.

Achieving the profession of "prince" has gotten a little out of hand and so has Fate's decision making skills. A poor miller's daughter yearns for knowledge, love, and adventure when Fate intervenes with the help of an antiquated advocate and turns her simple life into something a little more complicated...

You came to me in the sweet surrender of the Fall, swirling about me with your golden autumn mist. You sang the burnt orange-crusted leaves off their branches to their eventual death on the forest floor; the way you sang me to my own death. But how was I to know when you climbed up the tresses of my hair that someone as charming as you could breathe the death of winter?

Chapter 1:
“He’s so charming!” I heard them chime.
“A literal fairy tale celebrity!”
“Oh birds!” I would scream. “Had I not only a bird’s eye view but wings to soar I would enervate you with the white-water paint of my bowels!” Day in and day out I sat there at my window above them all. Them: so pretty in their primmed up dresses and purped out ribbons and pearls. “Fiends!” I would breathe. So high in their thinking, yet so low in their ways of life. I saw it all. From the swooning, enraptured sighs at his highness' arrival on white horse with trains of gold en suit to the skirts of two or three dissipating into the shadows at the edge of the wood after the “prince.” Hours later they would stumble out adjusting corsets and shoulder straps, the color of robust painted all over their cheeks and expressions. It was sickening to watch, the way they fussed over such wealth and fame.

I didn’t need any of it, I reasoned. Love will be enough.

No it won’t! My mirror chided me. Love will NEVER be enough! It was the wisest of all the antiques in my room. I do admit it had seen a lot. But I didn’t feel it had reason to be so bitter about the way I dreamed my life to become. I always supposed it got to feeling that way when it was locked up in the bottom of an old antique shop, amongst the rat filth and darkly dusted corridors—untouched—for years. Even though I was only 9 years old I remember the day quite clearly.

I suppose the thing I like most about writing is the fact that I get to make up new words, by default or otherwise. That's all for now! I've Whet-the-stone and primed it for sharpening. It may be years before I finish...but it's a little guilty pleasure I have, so maybe it'll be faster than I think. Let me know your thoughts!

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