You're then wanting me to take it out of the context in which I'm writing it ("Hey! Wouldn't it be cool in Hawkeye and BJ could actually be together without having Peg die or divorce him?")
No, no, not necessarily; just that a few more paragraphs about her as a human being would completely bring her to life for me, and possibly make me wonder if she was a long-lost family member on my father's (American) side. That's why I wondered if this was a diary she was keeping, or a letter she was writing. if she's talking to someone, either another person in a letter or herself in a personal diary, that becomes very easy, as opposed to a narrator in the first person telling an audience.
Damn. That's incredibly muzzily phrased. More coffee, please.
So, umm... would anyone *mind* if I put a section that's insanely out of context up? I'm curious how it works for People Who Are Not Me.
Hum.
Hum.
It's a useful, indecsive noise. You're onto something intresting, but I think I'll have to give it some more thought. I thought that details like the sewing might help with that, but it could perhaps use some more. Part of the trouble is we-- viewers-- don't actually know a lot, so I'm into research about what would be normal at that time. Thinking needed.
would anyone *mind* if I put a section that's insanely out of context up?
I never mind when you post *anything.*
I'm cool with out of context, Plei. Since I do read some of the stuff in here that's spoilery and therefore out of context for me, it's not a big problem.
Okay. It's in the same story I've been starting to post, but much later on. Like, last chapter much later on. And, of course, POV switch.
As a child, he'd often thought about the Blitz, about what it must have been like, being caught up in it, London burning as you took cover in total blackness--on bad days, he'd pretend the closet was an Anderson shelter just to keep himself from panicking in its cold stuffiness. Then, he'd fancied he had some idea what the people had been going through. Now, however, he found himself identifying with what it must have been like for the buildings as bomb after bomb shook loose their mortar and splintered their framing.
The sheets were still rumpled, and the scent of sweat and sex still hung heavy in his room. He wasn't up to facing any of it, so he arranged himself awkwardly on the sofa and used his coat for a blanket. When he awoke, she was sitting on the chair across from him.
"You could have knocked," he muttered.
"I did. You didn't answer."
The silence between them stretched and grew until the room was filled with it. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the shelter layout: two beds, table center, cupboard by the door, small shelves for books and the like. When she finally spoke again, he was so deep in his own mind, her voice almost failed to register.
"Look on the bright side. At least my mother wasn't there."
