wherein Liz muses on story genesis
Sep. 13th, 2005 11:53 pmAm in Ithaca. Am still unemployed. However, I did get paid for my dogsitting endeavors, so I'll be okay until December, by which point I'm sure I'll have found something to do.
I have been plotting the next chapter of "Lemonade" and trying to figure out which scenes to detail and which to gloss over in chapter 17 of "Apartment Manager."
I am leaving "Undertow" to the side for the moment -- I have the structure, I have the plot and several of the scene divisions, but I don't have the rhythm of the story. I don't have the word choices, the pattern of the language. I have the pictures in my head, like gauzy veils and light reflecting off water, and I have the suffocating summer heat, the lap of waves against stones, the oppressing night, the flickering torches, the sickly, overpowering perfume and incense, the breathless anticipation of something you wish with all your heart will never come to pass... but I don't have the words.
I am waiting until I get the tide in my bones, so I can let it flow through my fingers. It has to click into place, turn the key in the lock, and then I can write. Until then, the words would be lies.
They're always lies, of course. I write fiction. But sometimes lies tell the truth.
I have been plotting the next chapter of "Lemonade" and trying to figure out which scenes to detail and which to gloss over in chapter 17 of "Apartment Manager."
I am leaving "Undertow" to the side for the moment -- I have the structure, I have the plot and several of the scene divisions, but I don't have the rhythm of the story. I don't have the word choices, the pattern of the language. I have the pictures in my head, like gauzy veils and light reflecting off water, and I have the suffocating summer heat, the lap of waves against stones, the oppressing night, the flickering torches, the sickly, overpowering perfume and incense, the breathless anticipation of something you wish with all your heart will never come to pass... but I don't have the words.
I am waiting until I get the tide in my bones, so I can let it flow through my fingers. It has to click into place, turn the key in the lock, and then I can write. Until then, the words would be lies.
They're always lies, of course. I write fiction. But sometimes lies tell the truth.