I started writing for a lot of reasons; my head thrums with stories wriggling their way out, I hope to earn a little money writing once the kids attend school full time, and I enjoy the solitary nature of writing (just me and my computer – sounds like an 80’s sitcom title – perhaps I need a theme song . Suggestions welcome). But mostly, I love playing with words. Taking an idea, rolling around in the mud with it, then washing it off to see what it looks like all clean and shiny.
Think of it as Fifty-Two Pick Up. My (much) older sister (I’m finally talking about you Pam), used to ask me if I wanted to play. Giddy she would want to play a game with me, I’d eagerly agree. She would pick up a deck of cards, throw them up in the air, and laugh evilly (OK – I might be making that last part up, but not by much). My part in the game was to pick up the fifty-two playing cards. And that was it. I fell for it every time. But after finding and retrieving each card (from the many places where they managed to land), I’d have a neat, tidy stack. While annoyed I had to pick them up; there was something oddly satisfying about the stack’s even edges and silent potential. Writing is a lot like that. I have the words, I toss them in the air, and reassemble until they are neat and tidy. If I did it well, it will be oddly satisfying and full of potential.
While I’ve been editing my text, I began tossing a few sentences into the air, playing with the words until they felt right (or at least a little better). I thought I’d share a few with you.
This first excerpt comes after Lou catches her fiancé red-handed (so-to-speak). Among other things, she was delivering his favorite coffee and a handmade birthday cake.
| She turned and rushed down the stairs, bumping into something solid, absently recognizing the dark hair over blue eyes as the jacketless Brit she met earlier. “Sojdity” she mumbled and disappeared down the street, steaming coffee melting her pristinely beautiful cake into slush behind her. |
This excerpt is about Al, his apartment, and his writing practices.
| He liked to type at night, while the flavors of his most recent restaurant visit still lingered on his tongue. The window turned into a mirror, reflecting the sparse, bright apartment behind him and blocking out the busy traffic and lights below. Only the sound of running engines and closing doors reminded him of the bustling on the other side. It was peaceful; like his own ivory tower of cream city brick. |
This next example is two versions of the same sentence describing Al’s first impression of Miller Park on a perfect summer day. I always find it fascinating to see what authors change from draft to draft. It gives a little insight into what they find important. I still don’t love this sentence, but I like where it is going.
| First Version | Everything was in Technicolor. The grass greener, the bricks redder, yellows glowed, blues hummed. |
| Second Version | He felt like Dorothy when she awoke in the Technicolor Oz. The emerald grass, the ruby bricks, the golden yellows, and the cobalt blues all buzzed with intensity. |
I just like the image in this one.
| There were so many little lies building up, it was a wonder a new one could slide out so easily. |
So, dear reader, that’s a little flavor of what Cooler Near the Lake contains (get it, it’s about a chef and it has flavor). Next step, I have a book to finish. My husband gets to read the first hundred pages (because he keeps nagging me about it), and I’ll enter a feverish writing stage. I’ve created playlists, stocked tea and wine, and (most importantly) built writing time into my schedule. Until next week, dear reader, let me know what you think – and I’d love suggestions for my theme music.
