I just finished reading "The Egyptologist" by Arthur Philips. It inspired me.
These girls have the most beautiful dresses. And so do I -- how about that?
Kaylee ,'Shindig'
The Great Write Way, Chapter Two: Twice upon a time...
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
SailAweigh - Mar 14, 2005 4:18:13 pm PST #570 of 10001
Nana korobi, ya oki. (Fall down seven times, stand up eight.) ~Yuzuru Hanyu/Japanese proverb
Susan W. - Mar 14, 2005 7:42:44 pm PST #571 of 10001
Good Trouble and Righteous Fights
t dances into the thread
They liked my love scene! They liked my love scene!
OK, it was just a kissing scene, but a hot one. At least, it was meant to be hot, but I wasn't sure it actually was, because I don't yet have confidence in my ability to get Teh Sexy from my brain onto the page. So I was afraid it was too clinical or too cliche or too much or not enough or something. But they liked it! One group member, J (female) suggested I tone down one part that she thought was too much too soon, and A (male) said, "The upper half of my body agrees with you, but the lower half likes the way it's written."
t bounce bounce bounce
deborah grabien - Mar 14, 2005 7:44:57 pm PST #572 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Bwah!
That's some good commentary there. I like A.
Susan W. - Mar 14, 2005 8:10:45 pm PST #573 of 10001
Good Trouble and Righteous Fights
Oh, A is great, and has a wonderful eye for that perfect descriptive detail that says it all. One thing we were discussing after we agreed that I had, for the most part, written a satisfactorily hot scene was how the characters should react post-kiss when they realize that, oops, they've been doing something hella inappropriate and are now going to have to live with the consequences. We decided we needed some kind of action for Jack to go with his dialogue ("Bloody hell."), but J and I couldn't think what. A thought for a moment and said, "He'll be running his hand through his hair--because that's where Anna was touching him.") Perfect, no?
deborah grabien - Mar 14, 2005 9:53:15 pm PST #574 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Definitely not too shabby. Will he be aware of it? Jack, I mean?
Susan W. - Mar 14, 2005 10:13:48 pm PST #575 of 10001
Good Trouble and Righteous Fights
Will he be aware of it? Jack, I mean?
Yep, I think so. I haven't decided exactly where I'm going to switch into his POV, though--what I've got so far in this scene is all Anna.
Topic!Cindy - Mar 15, 2005 2:39:17 am PST #576 of 10001
What is even happening?
"The upper half of my body agrees with you, but the lower half likes the way it's written."Oh, honey. I think you have to type that up in pretty font, frame it, and place it somewhere in your sight line, when you're writing. What a great, great comment!
deborah grabien - Mar 15, 2005 7:18:28 am PST #577 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
So, Jack's hand running through his hair, and comes away with a sense memory of Anna? And he knows it? Does she know it?
SailAweigh - Mar 15, 2005 7:29:30 am PST #578 of 10001
Nana korobi, ya oki. (Fall down seven times, stand up eight.) ~Yuzuru Hanyu/Japanese proverb
Susan, that is so neat. I like Cindy's idea.
More torture.
Baptismal
It wasn't for much pay, the scrubbing and wringing, but it was for always. A guaranteed income was a good thing; it put butter on the table in addition to the bread. Sometimes, even a good, thick piece of sausage for stew. Her babies were going to grow up strong, a testament to the care of their mother. And the work was no harder than what any other village woman had to do, especially in the way of conscience. Hers was as clean as the prisine, smoothly ironed sheets that she returned to Madame Tilda's for her back room work.
§ ita § - Mar 15, 2005 8:15:53 am PST #579 of 10001
Well not canonically, no, but this is transformative fiction.
He came there often, but never spoke. He'd stand quietly and watch her as she washed, meeting her eyes calmly whenever she looked over - no embarrassment, no invitation, nor even interest.
Somehow he made her feel the interloper, and she self-consciously broke eye contact, irritated at herself each time. This was her space, where her work was done.
She felt that familiar presence away from the river sometimes, late at night, when she was the one out of place, hurrying home after hours. But try as she might, she couldn't pick him out of the darkened alleyways as she passed.