Despite the fact that Sunday is one of the two days of the weekend, I always spend the day feeling bummed out. The fact that it's Sunday means life returns to normal tomorrow. For me, it's not so bad anymore, now that I'm not working an office job. But tomorrow, being Monday, means my hubby is going back to work, and that's a total downer. Also, Sunday is laundry day.
While I was considering what to blog about today I came to the realization that I talk much more about mundane details of life than about writing fiction. So I thought, why is that? After all, nobody really cares that it's laundry day or that I'm not in the mood to write, or that it's difficult to concentrate when there's a cat begging to be let in this room so she can destroy everything.
I think the answer is, it's the ordinary mundane things that affect the written word. I don't think much writing gets done when people go out to some beautiful house on a lake and get lots of lovely brilliant flashes of inspiration. I certainly don't get those very often at all. It's the flash of inspiration that may help me come up with the idea for a story or for a major plot point, but most of what I write is the result of just sitting down and plugging through. And hey, you need ordinary details in the story to make it more believable. Sometimes, a character needs a glass of water. Sometimes someone's foot falls asleep. It's these mundane things that make a work jump out at a reader and help immerse them in the story.
I want to share a tidbit of the beginning of "Fire Child". I'm still not quite in love with the beginning, but incidentally, the desire to post a bit of it is causing me to clean it up some!
FIRE
CHILD
When
everyone else is downstairs having a good time at a party, and I’m stuck alone upstairs
in the schoolroom, I indulge myself and play with fire. I watch the red and
orange flames lick the grate and reach in to try to grasp them. Usually the flames
elude me: they joyously twine around my fingers and then when I think I’ve
grasped one, they instantly leap away.
But this
time I’ve caught one. It’s a tall flame, the tip as yellow as my hair. Maybe
this time the fire feels sorry for me, so it let me catch it. It’s comforting
to feel the tickling sensation of the fire licking my fingers.
“Trying to burn yourself to a crisp
again, little one?”
I snatch my hand out of the grate
and turn around. My brother Derrel is lounging against the door frame in the
entrance of the schoolroom, smugly gloating at having caught me in the act.
“You know I never burn myself!” I exclaim.
Derrel walks in. “If you sit by
this fire all night, you’ll be covered in soot! I know you don’t want our
mother to ring a peal over you,” he says with a wink.
Acknowledging this, I stand and
attempt to dust off my dress. It’s already too late for his warning. Two
blackened spots stand out like bruised eyes on my muslin skirt, evidence of my
kneeling in front of the grate. “Dash it!” I swear unbecomingly. “Oh well,
perhaps Jenica can get it out.” I raise my head and take a good look at my
brother, who must have just completed getting dressed for the ball. I survey
him from head to foot. “La, you look fine as a fivepence!”
“Coming from you, that is praise
indeed!” Derrel says. He’s wearing a well-fitting jacket, procured from one of
the finest tailors in the Metropolis earlier in the Season, over a waistcoat as
modest as it well-made. I’m sure he spent plenty of time arranging his
neckcloth into whatever ridiculous form is in vogue this week (they all have
absurd names like “The Waterfall” and “The Philosophical”). I don’t bother to
ask which one it is but instead exclaim that I can see my reflection in his
boots.
“Yes, my valet does know what he’s
about. Now I must be off! Mother will have my head if I’m not down in time to
help her magnanimously greet the first guests. Don’t bore yourself to death
while the party is going on – and don’t burn yourself to death either!”
“Oh, I shan’t! Once their backs are
all turned down there, I’m going out for a ride.”
Derrel affects a scandalized look,
which I feel is a bit rich, considering he’s the one who’s taught me everything
I know about sneaking out. He says haughtily, “Young lady, I should presume to
lecture you on the impropriety of leaving the house on your own at this time of
night—”
I playfully lunge at him, catching
my firsts in his neckcloth and threatening what may have been an hour’s hard
work. “Oi, you would not dare lecture me!” I cry.
Derrel laughs and grabs my wrists.
Unfortunately for me, I’m as short as he is tall, and it’s easy for him to
subdue me, even though I consider myself rather strong for a girl my age.
“Rogue! Unhand my neckcloth!” I do as he bids. “If you insist on going out after
dark, at least oblige me by taking my short bow. In case of brigands.”
“Pooh! Everyone knows there aren’t
brigands around here!”
“Still,” he says, adjusting his
neckcloth in the mirror, “take it anyway, to please me! You can never be too
cautious, what with these rumors coming out of town and all.”
“Fine,” I acquiesce, “but you must
know, if I take it, I daresay I’ll shoot it!”
He shrugs. “At least try to bring
back most of the arrows. Now, will
you at least sit down and pretend to
study, in case our mother should check in on you before the guests arrive?”
Sulking, I throw myself into a seat
and pull a book onto my lap. Derrel leans down and swiftly kisses my cheek
before withdrawing.
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