Monday, August 20, 2007

Outside Factory Theatre, beside the drink ticket tent.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, wearing green v-neck t-shirt and black vest with grey pinstriped pants and black sneakers. He sits alone, coffee cup in the gravel, lanky leg crossed over his thigh, looking up only to consider the figure of an equally lanky male, Pilates posture perfect.

The White Bone, Barbara Gowdy (HarperFlamingoCanada)

About page 112:

Cracks in the earth plunge like gorges, masses of humpbacked insects range like buffalo. A wall of webbed tree trunks is either a bush or a tangled ball of shubbery. She passes termite mounds as enormous as mountains and then there is bare earth for a spell, each granule of dirt a distinct, shivering pebble. The ground dips and she glides over a honeycomb of mauve boulders at the end of which is a dawn of white sand.

The dream ends.

He glides the loop over each slide, blowing gently, cooling dust from the pads of their awesome, aching feet.


Wisewebwoman said...

I wonder, Julie, as we writers are wont to do (catch the unintentional alliteration?)how much effort goes into your wondrous writing?
Just wondering.
Is all.

Julie Wilson said...

I give myself a lot of freedom to just let it come as it will given that I've commited to updating 4-5 times a week. Otherwise, I'd go crazy with expectations. I learned to be forgiving. That said, blissfully, it doesn't take long. I usually find the hook quite quickly. They're not all winners, but as an exercise I find, over all, it's produced some nice moments that even I can recognize are pretty decent. :)