The As Unnamed Novel...

[the_literary_spider]

Result!

I have finally broken the 7000 word barrier! A measly sum, admittedly, but I've had a block against the character in question I can hardly bring myself to care. She has taken a bizarrely morbid turn as of late, surprising me by puling out a bloody (heh) camera when faced with her first dead body. Considering it's a Steampunk book, I'm having trouble keeping it plausible, but that's the least of my worries. There are quite a few loose ends that would make amazing mini-plots, but I don't have the brain power. Ah well, big reveal coming up soon, and a smaller one in the next page or so, so lot's to look forward to. As promised, here is my first draft of my first scene, copyright at me. Not that you'd want to steal it, it's pretty awful...

"It was a dark night in London. A cold night sure, the kind with a hacking cough and hunched shoulders that was supposed to be viewed from somewhere indoors, but an all together average one. In short, it was a completely normal night that inspired normal activities, and many normal stories, aside, of course, from the bit where the girl died.

Marie squeaked, ducking around a corner and surveying the cold, dark street. In her minds eye, she pictured the square, with it’s grimy, washerwomen, lined walls and the weak shining sun that managed to look a little grey. Her eyes skimmed the scene behind closed eyelids, looking for a way out… finding none. Four high walls, and a single gate that was blocked by her attacker. No escape. 

A hysterical giggle rose to Marie’s lips. Why tonight? Tomorrow was Amy’s party, and they were all going to the theatre, and now she was going to miss it. It was so unfair. Besides, she thought, she deserved a party. Not many nine year olds studied as hard as her, or danced as gracefully, or sang as well. Every moment she had free was spent practising something- 

Her thoughts cut off as she concentrated on running, her little black school shoes tripping and tumbling over the cobbles. Her ribbon had fallen out, so her dirty blonde ringlets blew into her eyes and blinded her. She could hear the fast, even footsteps behind her, and imagined she could feel hot breath on her neck. Gradually her strength failed, her arms dropped, her feet couldn’t run and stumbled to a clumsy stop. A lazy hand reached out, grabbing her collar and stopping her short.

“My dear, please don’t run so fast, I only wanted to give you this,” A gentle voice said. Marie whirled, trembling, and saw not a gun, or a clenched fist, but a gloved hand, with a cherry red ribbon draped over it. Hers. She took it cautiously between finger and thumb and the fact that this man was not a murderer struck her as so funny she began to laugh, and laugh and laugh. In fact, she was laughing so hard; she didn’t even notice the knife plunging towards her neck until it was too late.

The man straightened, his eyes cold, and placed the ribbon and the weapon back in his pocket. He felt no remorse, no pity. In fact, the only emotion that plagued him was the slight regret he would have to dispose of the knife. He quite liked it. He sighed, and walked away into the frigid night, swallowed by the darkness. He was sure no-one had seen, it was the kind of neighborhood where people were prone to look the other way, and in any event, if anyone dared speak out, he would see to them quite quickly."



There, I did it, feel free to flame me (Just kidding)

Eight-Leggedly Yours
The Literary Spider

Comments

[caper_est]

So, finally catching up but better late than never, I hope:

Nice title. Be interesting to see where it's headed.

Datapoint, drawn from an experience I do not recommend: when running for your life, you don't have time for half that much thought, even down a long street with a fair start. The world goes flat and immediate as a bucketload of water in the face, and the mind remarkably non-verbal. In my case, the only wry/hysterical musings I had time for, occurred as my feet skidded at high speed, and extended to "What, this is it? Oh bugger!"

(It wasn't, though I still have the scar, and that was the last time I went out in formal shoes without any tread on them. Scoring the soles makes a useful difference, though a proper inbuilt rubber grip is of course far better. I pass the tip on for what it may be worth.)

The ribbon trick: you do like whipsawing the reader, don't you? I think this actually works better because we know it isn't going to end well.

The beginning: if you want a giggle some time, and haven't run into it already, Google "Bulwer-Lytton dark and stormy night". It's just one opening sentence, and a masterpiece of its kind. One Victorian sentence.

[the_literary_spider]

First, i apologize for taking so long, second, thank you very much. I would have got back to you earlier, but an assortment of homework, and something dreadful called society, kept getting in the way.

Thanks a lot for the advice, looking back, it does sound unrealistic, but for now I shall leave that scene alone as I don't know what to replace it with.

I shall look up this sentence, because I am fascinated. in other news though,I emailed a war poem I once wrote to one of mums friends who also writes (But he writes incredibly formidable looking poetry about incredibly deep subjects that contain metaphors within metaphors and the like. I only send him things are serious.) and he sent it to his best mate who works in a recording studio, and it got put on a CD with some randomer singing it. it's very folky, you might like it.

Lastly, did you ever read The Lottery? I know I've asked before, but I forgot. I actually read it, after thinking about how amazing it was as a concept and not wanting to be disappointing and putting it off. I wasn't disappointing, it was pretty amazing.