rlbourges

This Time, Starring Butternut Squash in the Triple Backward Somersault off a High Building

In Artists, Circus, Food, Irish Mist, Local projects, Revision on October 21, 2014 at 7:08 am

A rare occasion around here, when I discuss my writing with a local someone. For one, I don’t like to talk about what I’m writing. My characters loathe the intrusions by gawkers saying things such as: “oh, how disgusting – what is she doing?” and I have to say: “She was about to scour her bathtub in the buff, and didn’t expect a perfect stranger stepping into her bathroom.” (Not a real incident in any of my stories, but now that I think of it…)

However. Yesterday, on my fourth, fifth – or is it fifteenth – iteration through this particular piece of fiction, I answered the dread “what’s it about” question put to me by someone who, in between bouts of writing, acting and wondering what it’s all about Alfie, helps me by  making the walls in my bathroom paint-ready.

As I talked, I realized (and she confirmed) there was a lot going on in the story (A); a lot of characters attempting to tell it their way with little regard for anyone else’s POV (B); and a lot of expectations laid on the reader to sort out the mess as best he or she could manage (C).

Therefore, on this fifth, sixth – or is it sixteenth – iteration through the mists of time and place, I’m attempting something else: A) One story as told by a maximum of three characters. This will produce either a short story or a novella if I work my way to the words The End. B) Another story as told by one, maybe two, characters, which may produce a short story (or almost be one already).

Thus far, the best parts of today’s wakeup: a short clip of The Gravity Sisters in an excerpt of Donka – A Letter to Chekhov, written and directed by Daniele Finzi Pasca (available on youtube), and a reminder of a blogpost written several years ago. Maybe I should put up a shrine to Groucho Marx in my living room. In lieu  of incense: a cigar. Instead of ambrosia: steaming tureens of duck soup.

Thick morning mist over here. Turned rosy grey by the sun rising behind it. Onward to the next bit of quaking at my own nonsense.

 

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