Morning after getting to read
I only woke up four or five times last night, that's how tired I was. And I slept all the way till five.
I totally forgot to mention how stunning the California hills are! They deserve a Pamela Dean post, full of grace and vivid imagery and the names of all those splendid wildflowers. But soggy-brained me, glancing right and left during the frequent freeway stop-and-goes, took in the many shades of green, on some slopes quite a deep emerald green so beautiful that it made my throat ache, and I'd have to look at the traffic and get hold of myself because the last thing I needed was to let my already inchoate emotions go and to be bawling on the freeway, steaming up my glasses.
Splashes of yellow wildflowers, twinkles of tiny lavender blooms on preening weeds, and trees unfurling what will be glorious foliage for the first time in years. Years! I think it's been thirty years since I saw those hills so beautiful. Many familiar hills were unfamiliar, robed in magnificent green. That drive for so long so recently has been a uniform gray, except where fire-blackened.
So last night I cracked one of the books I'd tucked into my bag, and didn't get to read. I don't know if I should be sorry or glad I didn't get a chance at it. Sadly, halfway through a chapter I set it aside--the narrative voice was so neutral and flat-toned it was like reading an informational pamphlet instead of a story.
Narrative voice--the narrator, not the author--is such a difficult, challenging, interesting subject, and something we visual writers can really struggle with, as our brains want to bypass the words and dive straight into the brain-movie. Which (I think anyway) makes it worth discussing. I'm still trying to learn the magic of narrative voice. But I can sure tell when it doesn't work. (At least for me.)
This entry was originally posted at https://sartorias.dreamwidth.org/1002661.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
I totally forgot to mention how stunning the California hills are! They deserve a Pamela Dean post, full of grace and vivid imagery and the names of all those splendid wildflowers. But soggy-brained me, glancing right and left during the frequent freeway stop-and-goes, took in the many shades of green, on some slopes quite a deep emerald green so beautiful that it made my throat ache, and I'd have to look at the traffic and get hold of myself because the last thing I needed was to let my already inchoate emotions go and to be bawling on the freeway, steaming up my glasses.
Splashes of yellow wildflowers, twinkles of tiny lavender blooms on preening weeds, and trees unfurling what will be glorious foliage for the first time in years. Years! I think it's been thirty years since I saw those hills so beautiful. Many familiar hills were unfamiliar, robed in magnificent green. That drive for so long so recently has been a uniform gray, except where fire-blackened.
So last night I cracked one of the books I'd tucked into my bag, and didn't get to read. I don't know if I should be sorry or glad I didn't get a chance at it. Sadly, halfway through a chapter I set it aside--the narrative voice was so neutral and flat-toned it was like reading an informational pamphlet instead of a story.
Narrative voice--the narrator, not the author--is such a difficult, challenging, interesting subject, and something we visual writers can really struggle with, as our brains want to bypass the words and dive straight into the brain-movie. Which (I think anyway) makes it worth discussing. I'm still trying to learn the magic of narrative voice. But I can sure tell when it doesn't work. (At least for me.)
This entry was originally posted at https://sartorias.dreamwidth.org/1002661.html. Please comment there using OpenID.