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Thread: Going Back

  1. #61
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    The room seems brighter as the last words appear on the page. A sigh of relief. The word count appears at my command and the lights dim. A whiff of corruption reaches my nose as the girl leans over my shoulder, her lips touch my ear and I shudder.
    “That’s not enough words” She says, pointed little yellow teeth visible behind her grinning lips. “65,452 words is not a story. You have to edit it, you think writing is hard?” she laughs an unkind laugh. “Wait until you start editing.”
    “Who are you anyway” I ask, already knowing the answer.
    “I am the procrastination imp, the anti-muse, the inner-editor. I am your self-doubt. What you have written is rubbish. Look, the sun is shining, the pub is open, there are games to play and people to see. Take a break.” Again the smile. “You can call me Sally” She reaches up with a wrinkled hand, dirt can be seen under long cracked nails, she clears the greasy blonde hair from here eyes, eyes which have seen it all, yellowed with time and boredom.
    “I can’t, people need to see what I have done, my heroes and villains need people to seem them or they’ll die of mediocrity”
    “They’ll die anyway, they are poorly written and their actions are weak and inconsequential. Your story will be loved by no-one”
    “No, I will edit them and clothe them with light and color. People will love and cherish them. Go away”
    The girl sneers again and walks to the door. She looks back over her shoulder at me. “You will fail.” She says as she slams the door.
    I turn back to the screen to begin the long process of a first edit. I feel like a winner. Scrivener lights up again and the first few lines of the story appear on the bright screen.

    The hut is old. Time has softened its edges and moss has gathered in the crumbling mortar between the sandstone blocks. A thin stream of brown smoke trickles from the blackened chimney. A figure moves dimly behind the web encased window.

    The man is ancient. His sandals worn with time. The long coat he wears over his thin frame is stained and too warm for the weather. The craftsman caresses the smooth surface of the mirror with callused, scarred fingers. His reflection looks back at him, an old man, face rippled by time.

    His last work, the years will soon brush him away but the labor of his hands will persist. He glances out the dirty window, glazed in rippling imperfection, covered in webs. Snow can be seen under a leaden sky. A brooding pine forest lies beyond the small yard.

    A heavy brass bar appears in his gnarly hands, drawn from shelves laden with dust and the materials of his craft. He places the glimmering metal onto his workbench and clamps it firmly.

    From the folds of his robes he produces a small saw with teeth so fine as to be almost invisible. Scorning the use of measuring tools he cuts the bar into four pieces…



  2. #62
    Senior Member Gilfindel's Avatar
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    Lol. Now I'm trying to figure out if that last part is a metaphor or your real story....

  3. #63
    Administrator Wickett's Avatar
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    Same here. Can you explain what the italicized part is representing?

  4. #64
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    Well, I'm not here for a critique at this stage, but it could be the opening lines of my prologue.

  5. #65
    Senior Member John Oberon's Avatar
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    Prologue? Ack! Get thee behind me!

  6. #66
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    Very well, I'm going to call my prologue, Chapter One, it's very very short and introduces a story element which appears in what now will be Chapter Two :-) It may be a throw away after editing is done but I'm not prepared to do that and start a start a story with Chapter Two at this stage.

    Thanks so much for your encouraging words on my finishing a first draft. Now go stand in the corner and recite twenty times, "I will never bag anyone for writing because that is what I am always complaining they don't do"

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