When I was a child, I wanted to be a writer. I liked writing things that were
crammedfullofbeauty.
This is the kind of gorgeous, pretty, lovely writing I used to do when I was, oh, say, eleven:
Gwendalinda Masterington was walking out of the study in her green velveteen day dress. The brown flowers on the small Chinese buttons echoed the chocolate gloss of Gwendalinda's thick curls. The skirt was full and rustled thickly as she strode into the hallway. She tucked her rose red hair ribbon purposefully behind her ear, which was next to her long, sideswept bangs. Gwendalinda was on her way to go change into her royal blue evening taffeta. The sun had been shining on the lake all day like diamonds on sapphires.
Had I finished this novel, here's what would have happened:
Gwendalinda would have walked from room to room changing clothes, and possibly, possibly, showing some emotions if things got cooking. The plot would have been, "Here's our heroine. Um. Look at her. That's her dress...and, um. She's pretty. That's her other dress. It's out of a different fabric, and it's a different color. She has some other ones, too, I'll show you. And...if she were ever in any situations, she would be all heroine-y. Hey, look at the sky! Clouds, beautiful clouds that show my gift for description. And now Gwendalinda will be crying! Look at her. Feel the feeling of the feelings I evoke. Listen to her heels clicking on the floor on her way out of the room. Click, click. (Sound effects, even, for reality.) She's gone, now. And that was the story. That was the novel. Please now go away."
Last year I did NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I believe I mentioned that in a previous post. I wrote 50,000 words of a novel. I had a heroine, and she felt feelings, and (sort of! sort of!) had situations but I'm afraid I didn't say enough about what she was wearing all the time. I could have made that baby 100,000 words.
I could have made it 200,000 words.
3 comments:
Oh, I can relate to this.
Apparently when I was 11 I started writing a novel about the Black Stump (your husband will know if you don't) but the only reason I know this is that a childhood friend contacted me when I was about 25 and asked how the novel had gone!
Just don't ever get rid of the name "Masterington." That kills me.
So are you trying to say there's more needed than a pretty dress?
Feck.
I think that food is to my writing what clothes were to yours. I'm always inclined towards that Harlequin-romance strategy of telling in fancy-restaurant-style detail about all the saffron cream sauces and Cuban chocolate mousse desserts.
Post a Comment