A Taste of Fiction

Speaking with my mother about Stephenie Meyer and JK Rowling and their great success at writing, my mother said that's what I need to do. As in write a book or books and become fabulously wealthy. I told her--in all honesty--that the thing is, if I had written "Twilight", I would have thought it was too stupid to show anyone else.

The truth of it is, I write a bit of fiction, but it's for myself. I sometimes have characters living in my head, and I sometimes give in and commit part of their stories to paper or computer file. For some months now, I've had a couple characters who seem to have taken up semi-permanent residence in my head. I'm thinking I might have to set them free, but whether or not they're worth the effort of a full book, I am not the best judge. (And I can assure you, anything I would commit to book form would not be in the league of Rowling or even Meyer. This specific exercise would probably be at best an Austen homage.)

So. I need some better judges than myself to honestly critique a small sample of my writing. I am secure in my competence as a nonfiction writer, but fiction leaves me less confident. Fiction is, after all, an invitation into a world of the author's creation--much more intimidating. If you are interested in reading a few paragraphs involving my two main characters, please continue on...and please give an honest reaction in the comments. Kind words written only to make me feel good are useless if untrue. Cruel but honest words can be left anonymously. :-)

He looked closely at her face. There was a very faint darkening around the eyelids that had not been there before; it gave her countenance a new frailty that might be pleasing to others but only served to make him afraid. He noticed too that her smile, which had previously been so quick and ready, was now missing entirely. Whether this was owing to her physical or emotional discomfort, he could not tell; this also made him afraid, regardless of cause.

This fear was simple enough to explain: he loved her. He would never admit it in such plain language, but it was plain enough. He had loved her since they were children and this childhood affection had been growing stronger with every passing season until it was true, passionate, and unyielding love. If he felt it in his power to do so, he would have never hesitated to ensure both their happiness by marrying her. As it was, he could do no such thing. He had resigned himself to that fact as soon as he understood fully what it meant to be a second son.

After seeing her settled comfortably upon the bench, he sat next to her. He made idle remarks upon the mildness of the weather, which did not require a response and she contentedly remained silent. These comments were merely a prelude to the real point in visiting, and his chatter allowed him time to gather courage. He dared not take her hand, but did indulge in the intimacy of a whisper when he finally got to it: “My dear Miss Clarke, are you resolved to die of a broken heart?”

She turned her rather listless gaze upon him, seeming to struggle to maintain interest. A slight and wry smile came to her lips—clearly forced and all the more terrible for the effort it obviously took to create. “Surely, Mr. Bentley, you were taught better than that at university? You can not mean to infer that I could will a serious infection upon myself from within the depths of my supposedly broken heart?” She turned away, looking towards a pair of swans who swam peacefully across her father’s lake. It was obvious her small speech had left her even more exhausted, and he wondered whether she was seeing the swans at all.

He weighed his words carefully before speaking, “I know only that you appeared distraught at the conclusion of our last meeting, and that we both assumed it would indeed be our last meeting for some time. Upon hearing of your illness, I could not help but feel partially responsible. After all, it was inexcusable to leave you in such a state—“

Here she interrupted him in her weak voice, “I can assure you, Mr. Bentley, that your guilt in the matter is wholly unnecessary. And I wish never to speak of that previous exchange again.” There was some edge to her words in this last sentence, and she paused for a moment to either collect herself or regain her breath. “It is an infection that reduces me now to this weakened state, and nothing more. I will heal, in time.” At this last, she stood up, clearly meaning to return to the house.

Posted by Jennifer at November 29, 2011 06:01 PM | TrackBack

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