Saturday, July 30

I don't know.

I have a story that I may post, but I don't know if anybody would want to read it--it has to do with motives, mostly, and consequences, and thoughts, and people who don't have very much hope. And it is a tiny story. Maybe it is all in my head, all the depth of the story, because I've talked into it several conversations I've seen/heard/experienced. Rather difficult. I want to put into words so many things that I haven't the wit to express. And you know all of these things will be edited to pieces in a year or two. I don't even like them all now.

I analyse things too much. It makes writing dialogue a bit difficult, because all of their sentences are loaded. When I talk, it is usually like a rough draft of what I really mean to say, and then I never have time for even a final draft before the finished product gets out there in the open for everybody to hear. Lame. I almost wish I could do that for my characters but I don't really want to wish the torture of self-consciousness on them.

Thursday, July 21

I succumbed to yet another quiz.

Your Hidden Talent
Your natural talent is interpersonal relations and dealing with people.
You communicate well and are able to bring disparate groups together.
Your calming presence helps everything go more smoothly.
People crave your praise and complements.

Wednesday, July 6

the tunnel scene

Somehow or other he had managed to spend the entire day alone. Well, the entire morning, anyway. It was only a few hours after most people would have their noon meal . . . he still hadn't eaten, but it didn't matter; he wasn't hungry anyway.

Somehow the sky had remained overcast since dawn but he felt at ease with the wind in the trees and something about the way the clouds were brooding over the hills. Every couple of hours it drizzled and spat rain to blur the lines of road and tree and hill. The high road was empty for as far as the eye could see--had been for hours--and the blurred line of it wound off into the green most satisfactorily.

Around the next bend there was a single arch over the road. It had been part of an old, unused aqueduct that descended from a snowy mountain. There was a dark patch right underneath the arch where the water line stopped and the walker stopped under it too, throwing back the hood of his cloak. The air smelled like wet soil and leaves and stone. He exhaled slowly to watch his breath turn to steam in the air.

Leaning against the inner wall of the arch, he cleared his throat and thought how odd it was to finally hear his own voice in the long silence of the day. He found himself oddly uncomfortable now that he had paused. His arms seemed too long, and his feet looked weird in their creased, worn boots.

Funny, he thought; I feel rather much the same way. Surprised at thinking this, he tried to explain how he felt to himself: it felt as if his mind was a pool and his thoughts things that surfaced slowly; it was a peaceful feeling. Well, not exactly peaceful; more contented. Not even contented!

There was something calm about his state of mind, but not exactly happy. He tried smiling, just in case, but it all came to nothing; he wasn't happy. He frowned, but that wasn't right either. Oh, well.

In the end he had to give it up, shrug his shoulders back into the familiar folds of his cloak, reposition his hood, and continue his trek into the hills.

It was five or seven miles later when he arrived at the fortress.