i dunno…opinions

Here is the two pages i have of this new novel so far. So far it really isnt writing itself. I dont think its really original either….really i wasnt something with fire, but something original…and something thats fun and writes itself.


 Here is what i have anyway.


  My eyes scanned the village below me, sitting sleepily between the green hills. I glanced down at my canvas and searched the shining wet paint with a hope of finding the same image. It was there all right, the chapel spire was maybe a bit short and the river running behind the school could have been wider, but overall not a bad job. I had somewhat tired of painting portraits now, every man and his dog had picture of themselves somewhere on their wall now. Miss Balmier had three of herself all lined up above her wrinkled couch. A wrinkly woman with a wrinkly taste in furniture was the old girl.

  The jagged and twisted white clouds began to gather in layers and cast navy grey shadows over each over. I decided to take my leave and gather up my paintbrushes before my work got ruined in one of the boringly frequent summer showers that drench the village in a humid glaze that lasts for hours after the rain has stopped.

  I picked up my things and held the painting in front of me so as not to smear the wet paint on my already paint covered jeans and bomber jacket. However, I only managed to trudge halfway down the path back to the village when I heard the infernal yipping of Mr.Buttersby’s terrier. With exasperation I turned around to see the small chubby character waddling down the hill, pushing his round glasses further back into the recesses of his large eye sockets.

  He stopped in front of me and gathered his breath while I looked at the sky reflecting from his shining bald head. He raised a finger and opened his mouth as if to aim a barrage of tedium at me. I resisted the temptation to dive for cover and stood staring into his bulging shiny eyes instead, not bothering to ask what he wanted.

“Don’t forget to attend the village dance at the hand and foot tonight. Ted said there would be drinks on the house and a jolly good buffet too.” He said in a voice resembling that of a bee with a severe head cold.

“Mr.Buttersby, I had not forgotten from the first time you had told me, nor should I forget by the fourth. I will be there, do not worry.” I smiled at him, but gave him an eyeful of bugger off at the same time.

  I think the fat man had become accustomed to that look and quickly waddled head of me down the hill, dragging his noisy animal behind him. He was nice man, but renowned for his ability to talk complete nonsense for hours on end that left you wondering how far you have to put your finger up your nose before you can poke your brain to sleep.

  The sky stayed dry long enough for me to walk back into Cornflower village and put my masterpiece safely inside my cottage. I put it in the basement, next to the picture of the very pub I was to dance at tonight. I retreated to my bedroom and slumped onto the sagging armchair beside my bed, staring at my open wardrobe. I contemplated which suit to wear; as little as it mattered for little changed between each suit. I could wear the white suit, but that was for special occasions only.

  The mirror on the open wardrobe door reflected my tired face back at me. Thirty-six years had taken its toll. My stunning good looks had fallen slightly behind the leathery old man catching up to my physical self. My hair was still prim and dark though, so far the grey had kept at bay.

  I walked closer to the mirror and ran a smooth finger over my less than smooth eyes. The bags under my eyes got larger and darker and my crow’s feet got deeper. Glass green eyes stared mournfully back at me. I averted my gaze and grabbed the nearest suit in the wardrobe, anything would do today.

  I was probably overdressed for the event, but it was either be overdressed and look good, or be underdressed and look like a homeless man had just been hit by a large (and probably more fashionable) tornado. My casual gear was for painting only; one does not require good tailoring to get covered in paint and clay.

  I walked out of my room and strolled down the narrow passageway to my stairwell. I briefly let my eyes graze the surface of a picture hanging on the beige wallpaper. My father’s hateful stare looked down in disgust at me. I could tell he was just dying to leap out of the picture and cane me for not getting a real man’s job, he always said I was the dysfunctional son. My parents favoured my brother most of all, but he ran away from home when we were twelve.

  When he left, my mum cried for days, and my father got more and more angry. I didn’t really miss him much, he was a right sod. Things calmed down when father had his accident and work and was killed. Mother and I moved to Cornflower village, where we lived together for ten years until cancer got her. Still, I got to keep the house for another twenty years.

  That night I sat at a table nestled in a dark corner of the pub, a fair way away from the throb of dancers and merry villagers. I nursed a cool brandy and watched as the amber fluid cast shimmering reflections on the dark wall beside me.

  Mr Buttersby shuffled over on porky legs and eyed me with his disproportionately magnified eyes.

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Phillip” he muttered, “We want to see you strut your stuff.”

  I’m an artist honed to perfection in areas other than flapping my body around like the common fool. Of course I can dance, but it would take a fine maiden to bring me to my feet.

“Well?” the man snorted.

  I found that very maiden, walking towards me. I stared around Buttersby’s robust hips to watch her slender figure sliding across the dance floor towards my modest corner.

“Piss of James” I mumbled at the man, now looking disgruntled and startled.

  He waddled away and the woman, Lucy Anvil, slithered smoothly into the chair in front of me. She eyed me briefly with a cold steel gaze given from powerful grey eyes. I loved her long and gaunt face; it spoke of beauty but showed power and cunning. A single strand of her raven black hair slipped down from her swept back fringe and came to rest on her pouting red lips. She was a temptress, a siren I was willing to fall for.

“Not being mean to poor Mr.Buttersby are we?” she purred, her lips parting slightly to reveal teeth that could only have been cleaned by the surging waves of Neptune’s finest ocean.

“If I am, I assure you it is only in the best interests of everyone here” I growled, a catlike growl to match her catlike purr.

  She bit her bottom lip slightly; it was like a crystal clear invitation to take the conversation wherever I wanted. I considered suggesting a nude portrait of her…but no that would be too easy. She was throwing herself open to games of my wildest dreams.


3 Responses

  1. M, What you have is perfect, absolutely perfect. Novels must be written one word at a time, just like short stories, but there are a hell of a lot of words to write. Do not start fretting or even thinking too hard yet about what you will ultimately have on your hands. You are still in the creating stages, learning what it is that you may want to write about and how.

    Here’s my advice. Sit down every day and write as much as you can write in an hour or until you have to get up. Don’t reread it. Just get as many words down as you can. Don’t judge. ANYthing you don’t like today can be changed at any point down the road and doesn’t not necessarily need to work today. It doesn’t really even have to make sense today.

    Tomorrow reread what you write today. Correct what is easy to correct. If you come up with a dilemma write a note about that dilemma to yourself and move on. Get the words on paper.

    Rough draft is about content and (making it up).

    Second draft is about structure (and making sense)

    Third draft is about language (and making it clear)

  2. Ditto what Gay said. Except I’m a little more into mixing up the rough draft and the structure. But that could be why my novels are slow work.

    I’d listen to Gay.

    But I like what you’ve got going.

  3. kev-baby, you’re right as always. Actually, all the stages to the writing process bleed into each other like ink dropped from a leaky pen over one spot. They don’t land in exactly the same place but they seep beyond each other’s borders. Hmmm, I may have to put that on my blog.

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