Writing resembles stone masonry more than you might imagine.
There's heavy lifting, smashed fingers, and at the heart of it, the process means hoisting one word on top of another to an effort to build something. I guess most masons start their day with the first few rocks that come to hand. Pile them up, see if they stick together and look okay.
There's heavy lifting, smashed fingers, and at the heart of it, the process means hoisting one word on top of another to an effort to build something. I guess most masons start their day with the first few rocks that come to hand. Pile them up, see if they stick together and look okay.
My writing day begins with a few words arranged into a pile as a warm-up before settling into more serious -- and/or paying -- work.
This photo was yesterday's story prompt, and this was the result.
Story #1
It wasn't fair, he thought, and there was no view at all to speak of.
A gust of wind moved over the empty buildings and pushed something metal into protesting movement. The harsh crying of crows echoed across the unmown lawns.
He looked back along the overgrown driveway, but the little blue Honda was not coming back for him.
Story #2
Former religious retreat available for unique development opportunity. Large parcel with nearly 750 feet of deep-water river frontage, the Fairview property was host to a high-end restaurant as well as a private residence before falling vacant. With classic local river-stone construction on main buildings, the property includes a small chapel, an enclosed gazebo, and main lodge as well as several outbuildings, including work-sheds, bunk-house, and utility shop.
After the sound of wind swallows up the heated clicking of the car and the killdeer and red-winged blackbirds have resumed their gossip, the place grows larger than a first glance can absorb. The overgrown pea-gravel drive stretches a long way back to the main road. The black pine-trees standing sentinel along the property lines dwindle into the distance. The river at the technical "front" of the property (water takes precedence) sparkles at the bottom of a steep slope. The boathouse -- or perhaps a neighbor's house -- shows as a postage-stamp of roofing material among some trees at the river's edge. The former lawn between the front terrace and the fine view of the river looks like a vast and waving hayfield.
The river seems too distant to reach by foot: surely the nuns didn't rush down that hill or climb back up, no matter how sultry the summer. Did they stand with their hands on these warm, round cobbles -- the pink and buff sandstone somehow flashy, for all the weight and work of construction -- and watch the shiver of heated air rising between here and the cold river water?
I'll be away from the blog for a bit, but thank you for stopping by.
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