Well, this is awkward...

October always makes me feel quite writerly, for some reason.  Unfortunately, I was not particularly writerly this September, and though Snippets of Story may be quite brilliant in November after the inspiration of October has passed, this past month was... less than inspired.  What you see before you is pretty much all I wrote this month.

*cringes*

I shall do better in the coming weeks.  I promise.

 Jack’s eyebrows crinkled. “But Mr. Herbertson, sir—Jeeves in the Jeeves books isn’t a butler. He’s a valet.”
“No more is James Butler a butler. He’s my personal secretary,” Mr. Herbertson retorted, obviously quite anxious that the company should know that Mr. Butler was a personal secretary and not secretary to the unwashed masses at large. “And while we’re on the subject, young man, just what are you?”

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives 

 “What,” Jack inquired, “is THAT?”
“It is a cat,” said Deirdre, a little stiffly. “I have rescued it.”
“From a sausage machine?” Jack dropped his briefcase and bent down for a closer look. The cat snarled at him and batted an indignant, bedraggled paw.
“No indeed, what a horrid thought.” Deirdre scooped the cat up and turned away from Jack. The cat snarled at her and tried to wiggle away. “There’s nothing truly wrong with it—all it needs is a good hot bath and some food.”
“Indeed,” said Jack solemnly. “I should very much like to see you give that cat a hot bath, Miss McSmith.”

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives 

 Everything in Mrs. Buchran’s office was an uglier shade of yellow than the last item. If the sofa had matched the heavy gold drapes, or the butterscotch candies in the dish, perhaps it would not have been so jarring to look at, but as it was the clashing colors made Sylvia wince.

~The Rochesters 

 “It’s a really pretty room,” she said at last, and bit her tongue immediately afterwards to punish herself for the inanity of the comment. It was not, strictly speaking, a very pretty room. Functional would be a better term. Well, really it might best be described as—
“Oh, please, it’s kind of a mess right now.” Celia grinned. “Actually it’s kind of a mess all the time. We like to keep our stuff on display. Like a museum. See, over there, that’s what most people would call a dresser but we call it the portrait gallery.”
 The bureau was littered with pictures—photographs of each family member, including a young woman whose identity Sylvia could easily guess, along with several drawings in various stages of visibility that seemed to represent dogs.
 “Patsy likes to draw,” Celia explained.
 “They’re cute,” said Sylvia, which was quite true. Whether the pictures were artistic as well as cute was not the question at stake.

 ~The Rochesters 

 “Last year—” Celia began, but Alice interrupted.
“Last year the rule was exactly the same. Come on, now, let’s not have any more nonsense. There are lots of other things to do around here than swim in the lake.”

“I was going to say,” said Celia with dignity, “that last year the rule was the same and no one expired from lake deprivation before the Fourth.” 

~The Rochesters

 “Come on, Francie,” Celia pleaded. 

“It’ll be much more fun if you play,” Sylvia added. 

 “If Frances doesn’t want to play,” said Hilda, who seemed quite bored with the discussion, “then you shouldn’t keep nagging her, Celia.” 

Celia looked as though she were about to say something about how she could handle the nagging of her own sister, thank you very much, but Francie whisked her out of the room and into the hallway before she could speak. 

Sylvia, left alone with Hilda, resisted the urge to say, “Well, this is awkward.” 

~The Rochesters 

Philippe was silent for a moment more, then jabbed the top of her head gently with his chin. “Ah, well, she’ll think you were kidnapped by gypsies, in all likelihood, and she’ll give Chantal a holiday to celebrate.”

Margot laughed, the horse stumbled a little over a stone in the path, and her jaws clicked together on her tongue. She sucked a breath in through her teeth and determined not to squeal over it. “What shall I tell her when she asks where I’ve been?” 

Philippe made an exaggerated, loud thinking noise. “Ummmm… tell her you were kidnapped by gypsies, and it was only the hand of your valiant brother that was able to rescue you from certain death. She’ll be so pleased to see you safe home again and so proud of me for saving you that she’ll never think of scolding either of us.” 

~The Color of the Sky

Flecks of gold were swallowed up

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.

~Anton Chekhov

The Penslayer has challenged, and I'm up for it.

Description, as I said in my last post, is hard for me.  Hardest of all is that elusive thing called describing your characters.  Sure, it can be done easily enough.  "Margot was sixteen years old.  She was tallish and had long dark brown hair, dark brown eyes and a pointy kind of chin.  You are now getting verrrrrry sleeeeeeepy..." (Or at least you will be quite soon if I continued on in such a fashion.)

If I wanted to read flat, flavorless here's-what-she-looked-like description, I'd go back to first grade and re-read Peter and Jane literature.  It's description, yes.  It serves the purpose, yes.  But it's not done well.  And though I'm not the one to pass judgment on what has been done well, I can read--as can all of you--and I can see for myself--as can all of you--when something has not been done well.

This is where I should stick in the disclaimer about how I don't think my description is very good and blah-de-blah, but the thing is-- I actually think the following descriptions are pretty good and I'll tell you why in a moment.  (Um, I will disclaim that everything's subject to lots and lots of editing and this is only the first draft and more blah-de-blahs that you aren't interested in.)  The serious ones from Sky come first and then at the end I couldn't resist sticking in a tidbit from The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives.

Philippe wasn’t any taller. His face was just as it had always been—a little more lined and thin, perhaps—and he still had the tiny, smooth scar on his chin from that mock duel with his friend Pierre when he was fourteen. His voice was the same, his hair had kept its curl—though the color seemed closer to dirt than sand at present—and he still squinted much longer than necessary when he came inside after bright sun. And yet something was different, something Margot couldn’t put into words for Fina and wouldn't have wanted to.

In this paragraph that begins Sky's second chapter, I introduced Philippe through Margot's perspective.  Her brother has been away for nearly a year, and so she naturally looks at him with an almost critical gaze, hoping that he'll be exactly the same.  (Of course he isn't--no one is after eleven months--but that doesn't stop Margot from hoping that he might be unchanged.)  In this paragraph, you learn that Philippe has blond but rather dirty hair with a bit of curl to it, that his face is thin with crinkles around his eyes and he has a scar on his chin.  Yet it's more interesting to read about in the snippet than in that boring sentence.

It had taken Margot far too long to reconcile herself to the emptiness in her sister’s eyes. Amber had turned to mud, radiance to shadows. Flecks of gold had been swallowed up in a mist that never faded under the sun—because it could not see the sun.

I've told you before that Fina is blind, but in that sense you have an advantage over the someday-reader of Sky.  Because I haven't yet told the reader in so many words that Fina can't see.  I've chosen instead to hint at it (later there will be a flashback in which Margot remembers the fever that took Fina's eyesight) and for now I only refer to her blindness sparingly.  But in this case, I used it to tell the reader what color Fina's eyes are--how they used to be, and how they are now.

Mareta’s hand found Margot’s, and her chin trembled like an arrow in the hand of a frightened archer. Sweat slipped from her palm and clung to Margot’s. “I need more water,” she said, quite clearly and without the slightest touch of anxiety. Her voice, after all, was what soothed the baby’s tears and comforted him during the fever-dreams. She could not allow it to slip and let in fear or alarm.

Mareta is, in my humble opinion, the most beautiful character in my story, yet I've been hesitant to tell the reader how she looks.  (If you're curious, take a gander at the picture on the top left.)  Mareta is the kind of woman who radiates beauty from the inside out, however, and it's that shining inner loveliness that I've tried to communicate through the way she moves and speaks.  Even in the snippet above, where she's dealing with a desperately sick child, she keeps her composure and manages to appear calm when she does not feel so.

And then just because writing nonsense is fun (and fun is good)...

Then came the day when Jack was clunked on the head by that all-knowing specter called Realization, who informed him that Deirdre was a very beautiful person and then proceeded to follow up the clunk with several not-so-gentle whunks and thunks to punish him for not being clunked at an earlier date. The whunks and thunks also served to remind poor battered Jack of the exact shade of dark brown manifested in Deirdre’s eyes and the precise filter of light that made itself known through her hair when she wore it down. However, he was so busy apologizing to Realization for being such a knobble-head that he didn’t bother to think about what nice cheekbones she had until three AM when he was trying to go to sleep and it was too late to ring her up and tell her so.

What kind of a person doesn't give hugs?

You know the post I wrote a few days ago about actually finishing something this July?

Scratch that.

Yes, yes, that sounded defeatist.  I know.  But it isn't, honestly and truly.  It's just that finishing something really isn't my goal this July.  Rather, my goal is to begin something.  Some things, I should say.

There are currently three main ideas swirling around in my head, and I'm itching to get them down somehow, to start each story and let it begin to flow.  And right now, I don't want to tie myself down with an accomplishment goal.  I just want to write what I want to write.  Yes, I'm going to work on The Rochesters.  But I'm also going to work on The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives.  And possibly The Color of the Sky [vewy, VEWY tentative title there].  And you are going to be hearing a whole lot more about each of those projects.

So, to celebrate these beginnings, I give you July Snippets, paired with pictures that have been inspiring me lately.  (Most of the images are snagged from friends' Pinterest boards.  I don't own anything, nor am I making money of this, yada yada yada.)


“Oh, quite, quite.” Mr. Payter buried his face in his coffee cup. A sip or two of the honeyed coffee covered his embarrassment and he was ready to converse again. Most people do not put honey in their coffee, but if you tried to tell that to Mr. J. Paxton Payter, he would merely fix you with a stern and quizzical eye and demand why that prevented him from doing so.

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives

This highly interesting conversation (which, if you did not find interesting, you should go back and re-read in order to better develop your sense of humor) took place at a largish sort of dining table in a smallish sort of boardinghouse in a smallish sort of city. The name of the city is none of your business. If I did tell you its name, you would be on the next subway in no time flat, speeding your way towards the boardinghouse so you could get a hold of Miss McSmith for an interview and possibly even some photographs.

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives

“Sylvia Lemmins, you’re wanted in the headmistress’s office.” The buck-toothed fourth grader who delivered this ominous message stared eagerly around the ninth-grade classroom, hoping that her statement would induce the kind of awed titters and whisperings that it would have in her own classroom. To her intense disappointment, the ninth-graders merely glanced up from their maps and regarded her with something akin to annoyance.

~The Rochesters

Mrs. Buchran’s office had always smelled rather oddly of butterscotch candies, the golden oval Brach’s kind that took forever to suck and made your mouth feel quite bland for a good while afterwards.

~The Rochesters

Celia regarded Mark with her best Miss Manners look. “Please at least pretend you're civilized and close your gaping mouth. It’s open so wide I can see your tonsils.”
Mark snorted. “No you can’t. I had them taken out two years ago.”

~The Rochesters

Celia’s voice dropped to an awed whisper. “And then he said… you know… A Word.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. She did not ask what the word was, but Celia went ahead as if she had.
“You know. The word… the word Rhett Butler doesn’t give.”
If it were physiologically possible for Timmy’s ears to prick up, they would have pricked up. “What doesn’t Rhett Butler give?”
“Hugs,” said Alice quickly. “He doesn’t give hugs.”
Francie snorted.
“Well, he doesn’t,” said Alice.
Timmy wrinkled his nose. “What kind of person doesn’t give hugs?”

~The Rochesters

More than anything, she wanted to relax and lean back against the prickly plush seat, maybe even tuck her feet under her or draw her knees up to her chin. But such a thing was, of course, unthinkable. The train was too crowded with people. Maybe some of these people even knew Uncle Gregory—anything was possible. No, she wouldn’t disgrace her newfound family by behaving unimpeachably on the train.

~The Rochesters

But best of all were the days when Margot would pause before she spoke to drink in the smell of the sun on the earth. “It’s a blue sky today,” she’d say, and wait for Fina’s inevitable question.
“What kind of blue?”
“Rich blue, royal blue, a blue for a princess, and golden sun warming the blue and deepening it.”
Fina would find her way to the window and they would stand together, letting the sun warm their eyelids until Alienor came and the day had to begin.

~The Color of the Sky

“Souci’s eyes are your favorite blue,” Margot whispered.
Fina leaned closer. “Tell me about them.”
She grasped for words, but nothing came. “I—I don’t think I can.”
“Deep blue? Or pale?”
“Deep, very deep, nearly as deep as the shawl she wears.”
“I cannot see the shawl she wears.”
Helpless, Margot shook her head. “It is blue with a green thread running throughout… and a tiny touch of silver.”
“And her eyes are like that?”
“Yes, in a way.”
Fina sighed. “And her hair?”
“So black as to be almost blue when the light touches it.”
“Is everything around us blue, then?”
Margot leaned back against the tree trunk and gazed up through the leaves. “Yes… almost.”

~The Color of the Sky

Fina drew in a sharp breath. “You cannot read for yourself the… the Holy Scriptures of our Lord.” The words came out as little more than breath, but even the flames’ crackle kept no one from hearing.
“And why should I not?” Henri’s face was turned toward Fina, though his eyes searched the fire. “They are the words of God, breathed by Him alone—and am not I a man, whose very life was also breathed by God alone?”

~The Color of the Sky