Journals19
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Oh my goodness
1 min read
I can't believe something I wrote made it to DD... and I only just found out!
I rarely visit DA these days, let alone write. I'm very happy to see people enjoying my work. And thank you to those who pointed out errors -- admittedly, I didn't pay too much attention to proof-reading the Aunt's Demise, as it doesn't have much of a plot and it was never a major piece of writing for me. Just a little humour on the side....
I rarely visit DA these days, let alone write. I'm very happy to see people enjoying my work. And thank you to those who pointed out errors -- admittedly, I didn't pay too much attention to proof-reading the Aunt's Demise, as it doesn't have much of a plot and it was never a major piece of writing for me. Just a little humour on the side....
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A biiiiing yawn
1 min read
I haven't been around in months, probably even a year. This is due to my inherent laziness and the result of visiting DA too many times: boredom.
I have been writing while away, and I'm going to post my efforts up eventually. Yes.
I have been writing while away, and I'm going to post my efforts up eventually. Yes.
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Liking things
1 min read
Did you ever felt you liked something a lot that you knew you would run out of liking it one day? I'm not talking about love here--more of a preference for small things: eating out at a particular place, doing up your hair in a certain way, or even playing this one game? Then you knew it would end, it would all turn sour and old. And you, attempting to save the situation, deprived yourself of the things you liked, just to stretch out its novelty a little further.
Don't you hate that?
Don't you hate that?
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On the table
2 min read
The books on my bedside table now:
"The Waves" by Virginia Woolf
"Between the Acts" by Virginia Woolf
"1984" by George Orwell
"The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro
"The New Oxford Book of English Prose" edited by John Gross
I've recently revived my interest in Woolf after buying one of her books from the second-hand bookshop: the first one on the list. Orwell I just happened to spot in the library, along with Ishiguro, who I've read before but going in for the experience again.
The Oxford Book has been on my table since last Christmas. I've skipped about 200 pages worth of extracts from writers from the 17th century up to Charles Dickens; I plan to finish the entire book by the end of the year, absurd as it may sound. (It makes me fall asleep very easily.)
The progress on the novella is slow. I'm constantly changing my ideas; now I've planning to do away with the four characters I originally intended and replace it with one. And I've revised the actual story completely. And I've thrown away the seashell motif I was considering. Everything continues to churn and mix and blend into something new; the fragments of imagery I wrote down a few days ago now seems unusable. I'm finding the influence from Woolf massive, and just today I've read another attempt to emulate her brilliant style. It was lacking her shine, unfortunately.
A tentative, working title: Fire and Glass.
"The Waves" by Virginia Woolf
"Between the Acts" by Virginia Woolf
"1984" by George Orwell
"The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro
"The New Oxford Book of English Prose" edited by John Gross
I've recently revived my interest in Woolf after buying one of her books from the second-hand bookshop: the first one on the list. Orwell I just happened to spot in the library, along with Ishiguro, who I've read before but going in for the experience again.
The Oxford Book has been on my table since last Christmas. I've skipped about 200 pages worth of extracts from writers from the 17th century up to Charles Dickens; I plan to finish the entire book by the end of the year, absurd as it may sound. (It makes me fall asleep very easily.)The progress on the novella is slow. I'm constantly changing my ideas; now I've planning to do away with the four characters I originally intended and replace it with one. And I've revised the actual story completely. And I've thrown away the seashell motif I was considering. Everything continues to churn and mix and blend into something new; the fragments of imagery I wrote down a few days ago now seems unusable. I'm finding the influence from Woolf massive, and just today I've read another attempt to emulate her brilliant style. It was lacking her shine, unfortunately.
A tentative, working title: Fire and Glass.
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A sample of what I have been doing
1 min read
Part of my novella, or I hope it will be in the end, anyway.
"The branches of the eucalypt arc out like bolts of lightning."
"A bent and bleeding stem: a fountain of sap. The sap drains out and its colour fades."
"The sunlight scatters harsh shadows on the windowsill."
"I am the ascending sun, the slice of light breaking over the hills."
"I am the descending sun; my amber glow drains out of the sky and slips below your sight."
"I look into their flat, static faces and see the zeitgeist revived; braces, glasses, bad skin: the handicaps of youth, the moderator of wild spirits."
"The branches of the eucalypt arc out like bolts of lightning."
"A bent and bleeding stem: a fountain of sap. The sap drains out and its colour fades."
"The sunlight scatters harsh shadows on the windowsill."
"I am the ascending sun, the slice of light breaking over the hills."
"I am the descending sun; my amber glow drains out of the sky and slips below your sight."
"I look into their flat, static faces and see the zeitgeist revived; braces, glasses, bad skin: the handicaps of youth, the moderator of wild spirits."
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