Wavedancer commentary, part six
May. 8th, 2009 10:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read without the commentary
Alert: Abrupt shift in POV! Man the torpedoes! We are now entering Mike's viewpoint! Which (I must admit) I like a little better than Sarah's.
****Mike****
When I came back to her side of the house to ask her what she wanted to eat she'd already fallen asleep on the sofa, and I couldn't bring myself to wake her. I covered her with a blanket and went back to my kitchen to eat the leftovers I'd bought from Lenore; chicken mashed potatoes, sweet corn. Lenore was the best cook around, and it was a pretty good meal.
For some reason I wasn't tired, so I heated up a cup of coffee and sat down at my kitchen table. I couldn't help but think that she was the most stubborn person I'd ever met. The people I'd met at college and, later, at the marketing company were so different from everyone in Moray. Especially her. Even as kids she'd dig her feet in and that would be it. I remembered how odd it had been to be with her at first; I mean, she was Corny's younger sister, and it was weird to spend time with her. I was always tense that the other kids at school would find out, a fear that turned out to be well-grounded. Then we stopped talking and it was like a whole world closed itself off to me.
This is where having a NAME for the heroine would be quite handy. Because for a minute I thought he was talking about the cook, Lenore. And I wrote it.
So I have to address the lunacy of having a first person story with rotating viewpoints. BAD IDEA, YO. Good if you're an incredible author, but just...not good if you're anyone else. It confused the hell out of every reader who actually tried plowing through this fic.
As for now, well, the word stubborn still fit her wholly. She always wanted everything just so. Not that she was that precise when it came to keeping the house clean or the dishes done--she was a passable housekeeper at best. But move one tool in the barn--misplace one mooring rope--and you'd hear about it.
I adore the little signs of her being a control freak. hee!
But she was also generous to a fault, hard-working, and strong both inside and out. At the boat shows she always had time to talk to people who seemed interested in our charters, regardless of their appearance. She also had this coolly polite attitude she wore everywhere. The only place she'd relax would be at home, or maybe at Steve's after a few vodka shots. She always kept her temper in check.
The vodka makes a repeat appearance! Seriously, she's got a problem.
So I looked back upon today with a growing unease. Normally we get along just fine, but today tripped some sort of wire for her. Actually, she was kind of tense at Glenn's the night before also. She usually didn't scowl at the checkout girls like that. Even the couple at the funeral home today mentioned how uncomfortable she seemed.
Thinking of the funeral home brought with it a fresh ache; my great-aunt, whom Dad had told me died years ago. If I'd only known she was alive. The aloneness of my life seemed to wrap itself tighter around my heart.
I was anything but tired. I felt restless, and found myself wandering the house, feeling unsettled. Eventually I ended up in the foyer, and I looked into her side of the house and saw that she hadn't moved an inch. She must have been really tired.
Her long, thick hair was pulled into a braid, and it lay coiled against the pillow. When I came back from college I was surprised that she'd let her hair grow; she'd always had some sort of jagged short haircut. Every summer bleached it to a dark blonde, though by the end of winter it would turn a light brown again. She turned over and pulled the blanket up closer, and I felt a vague guilt for watching her.
This is the reason for the divided house. So he can go all Edward Cullen and watch her sleep. Not creepy at all. Nope. Not one bit.
It felt good not to have any charters left for the year. Not having to get up at four in the morning was a definite plus. Not that I really mind overmuch--I'm a morning person the majority of the time--but at least it wouldn't be such a problem when I was plagued with insomnia.
Sleep was not forthcoming, so I put my workboots on and took a walk down to where Wavedancer bobbed gracefully at her slip. The cover was fitted snugly over the old boat, the ropes all precisely knotted, and it lent a comfortable feeling to the night. The slight moonlight illuminated the Bay with a poignant clarity, and I was glad to be here again. The six years I had been away had been educational, and I was glad for the degree and the different experiences I'd had, but my heart would forever belong to Moray.
That's Sarah's boat, and I love how she "precisely" knots the ropes. It's such a cool detail.
I pushed the skiff into the water and stepped in, hefting the oars and rowing out into the Bay. There was a deep and abiding stillness to the air, a haunting quiet that let my thoughts run free. I breathed in the starry air and felt alive again. The oars cut the water with a slow and steady rhythm and it was an exhilarating underbeat to the night sky.
A thousand times as children we'd played out here, racing our boats, fishing, playing at pirates. She'd always been one step ahead of me, catching crayfish, rafting down rivers, daring me to race her in the rapids. The moon was waxing, cold and beautiful, and it was the only light I needed to steer me to the breakwall upon which Lake Michigan could hammer so mercilessly. Tonight the waters were calm and still and I looped the skiff's mooring line to one of the large rocks that formed the seawall. It had been my father's place to stand and think, and many a night you would find him here, hands jammed into his pockets, only the warm glow of his cigarette differentiating him from the rest of the howling dark. I scrambled up the rocks to his accustomed space and stood there, feeling the whole of the giant lake upon my face, tasting the moonlight on the water. The steady rhythm of the wavelets slapping the breakwall was a gentle beat that punctuated my stark thoughts and brought them clearly into focus, Here I was, twenty-seven, the third in a line of St. James men to haunt these waters. It imbued the night with shades of family, all gone now; I could almost hear my mother, feel the caress of her warm hand upon my face. I sat down on one of the rocks and jammed my hands in my pockets as the cool fall wind rocked the skiff behind me.
Mike is a bit of a poet. I do like his POV better because it seems just a hair more lyrical. And I think I actually like Mike more as a character.
I think I like this paragraph, too, though it's a bit pretentious. "Howling dark" lays it on too thick, for example.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with my back to the rock and the moon much higher in the night sky. My watch confirmed the lateness of the hour, and I got up, groaning at the stiffness in my back. Fortunately the skiff was still faithfully moored, as the thought of walking the entire way back wasn't pleasant.
Moray was entirely dark, the only light my kitchen window that drew me back to its cheery warmth. The wind had died down but the incessant chill continued and my hands ached. The dock stood out in sharp relief to the misty waters and I grounded my skiff on the shore next to hers.
The leaves rustled and scattered as I walked up to the big porch. The light in my window was a ghostly beacon to lead me out of the night air. I closed the doors and locked them behind me, and as I turned to hang up my coat I realized that she was watching me from the entryway to her side of the house.
"You're up late," she commented, her tone so casual that to an outsider it might have seemed like she was expressing an opinion about the weather. I knew her better, though.
But he's all mysterious boy and refuses to explain further, unlike Sarah, narration central.
And no, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"I was out on the breakwall," I said, purposely matching her casual tone.
She nodded absently, and I could clearly see how exhausted she was; this season had been unusually hectic due to the exceptionally clear weather we'd had all summer. She yawned and turned away, one arm reaching out to turn her kitchen light on.
I paused, not entirely sure what she was doing until she switched on the coffee pot and set a mug down next to it. "You're getting up?" I asked her in disbelief.
She shrugged absently. "Got to in a half hour anyways." She walked off into her living room groggily.
I felt a pang of guilt for waking her out of much needed sleep. Rubbing my eyes tiredly I went to my side of the house, where I poured some o.j. and sat down at the table. Yesterday's paper lay unread on the table--I'd picked up a copy at Lenore's--and I unfolded it. Nothing on the front page really caught my eye so I set it down again and drank the last of the orange juice.
I call it "orange juice" and "o.j." in the same paragraph. Should be consistent and figure out what the character would call it and stick to that.
I really don't need to add much to this part. I like it better than the other stuff, though. The difference in the POVs is too slight, though. This all should probably be third person rotating. And Mike's POV should have come up a LOT sooner than this. It's a bit late to introduce another POV, and that makes it a bit jarring.
On to part seven
Read this section without the commentary
Alert: Abrupt shift in POV! Man the torpedoes! We are now entering Mike's viewpoint! Which (I must admit) I like a little better than Sarah's.
****Mike****
When I came back to her side of the house to ask her what she wanted to eat she'd already fallen asleep on the sofa, and I couldn't bring myself to wake her. I covered her with a blanket and went back to my kitchen to eat the leftovers I'd bought from Lenore; chicken mashed potatoes, sweet corn. Lenore was the best cook around, and it was a pretty good meal.
For some reason I wasn't tired, so I heated up a cup of coffee and sat down at my kitchen table. I couldn't help but think that she was the most stubborn person I'd ever met. The people I'd met at college and, later, at the marketing company were so different from everyone in Moray. Especially her. Even as kids she'd dig her feet in and that would be it. I remembered how odd it had been to be with her at first; I mean, she was Corny's younger sister, and it was weird to spend time with her. I was always tense that the other kids at school would find out, a fear that turned out to be well-grounded. Then we stopped talking and it was like a whole world closed itself off to me.
This is where having a NAME for the heroine would be quite handy. Because for a minute I thought he was talking about the cook, Lenore. And I wrote it.
So I have to address the lunacy of having a first person story with rotating viewpoints. BAD IDEA, YO. Good if you're an incredible author, but just...not good if you're anyone else. It confused the hell out of every reader who actually tried plowing through this fic.
As for now, well, the word stubborn still fit her wholly. She always wanted everything just so. Not that she was that precise when it came to keeping the house clean or the dishes done--she was a passable housekeeper at best. But move one tool in the barn--misplace one mooring rope--and you'd hear about it.
I adore the little signs of her being a control freak. hee!
But she was also generous to a fault, hard-working, and strong both inside and out. At the boat shows she always had time to talk to people who seemed interested in our charters, regardless of their appearance. She also had this coolly polite attitude she wore everywhere. The only place she'd relax would be at home, or maybe at Steve's after a few vodka shots. She always kept her temper in check.
The vodka makes a repeat appearance! Seriously, she's got a problem.
So I looked back upon today with a growing unease. Normally we get along just fine, but today tripped some sort of wire for her. Actually, she was kind of tense at Glenn's the night before also. She usually didn't scowl at the checkout girls like that. Even the couple at the funeral home today mentioned how uncomfortable she seemed.
Thinking of the funeral home brought with it a fresh ache; my great-aunt, whom Dad had told me died years ago. If I'd only known she was alive. The aloneness of my life seemed to wrap itself tighter around my heart.
I was anything but tired. I felt restless, and found myself wandering the house, feeling unsettled. Eventually I ended up in the foyer, and I looked into her side of the house and saw that she hadn't moved an inch. She must have been really tired.
Her long, thick hair was pulled into a braid, and it lay coiled against the pillow. When I came back from college I was surprised that she'd let her hair grow; she'd always had some sort of jagged short haircut. Every summer bleached it to a dark blonde, though by the end of winter it would turn a light brown again. She turned over and pulled the blanket up closer, and I felt a vague guilt for watching her.
This is the reason for the divided house. So he can go all Edward Cullen and watch her sleep. Not creepy at all. Nope. Not one bit.
It felt good not to have any charters left for the year. Not having to get up at four in the morning was a definite plus. Not that I really mind overmuch--I'm a morning person the majority of the time--but at least it wouldn't be such a problem when I was plagued with insomnia.
Sleep was not forthcoming, so I put my workboots on and took a walk down to where Wavedancer bobbed gracefully at her slip. The cover was fitted snugly over the old boat, the ropes all precisely knotted, and it lent a comfortable feeling to the night. The slight moonlight illuminated the Bay with a poignant clarity, and I was glad to be here again. The six years I had been away had been educational, and I was glad for the degree and the different experiences I'd had, but my heart would forever belong to Moray.
That's Sarah's boat, and I love how she "precisely" knots the ropes. It's such a cool detail.
I pushed the skiff into the water and stepped in, hefting the oars and rowing out into the Bay. There was a deep and abiding stillness to the air, a haunting quiet that let my thoughts run free. I breathed in the starry air and felt alive again. The oars cut the water with a slow and steady rhythm and it was an exhilarating underbeat to the night sky.
A thousand times as children we'd played out here, racing our boats, fishing, playing at pirates. She'd always been one step ahead of me, catching crayfish, rafting down rivers, daring me to race her in the rapids. The moon was waxing, cold and beautiful, and it was the only light I needed to steer me to the breakwall upon which Lake Michigan could hammer so mercilessly. Tonight the waters were calm and still and I looped the skiff's mooring line to one of the large rocks that formed the seawall. It had been my father's place to stand and think, and many a night you would find him here, hands jammed into his pockets, only the warm glow of his cigarette differentiating him from the rest of the howling dark. I scrambled up the rocks to his accustomed space and stood there, feeling the whole of the giant lake upon my face, tasting the moonlight on the water. The steady rhythm of the wavelets slapping the breakwall was a gentle beat that punctuated my stark thoughts and brought them clearly into focus, Here I was, twenty-seven, the third in a line of St. James men to haunt these waters. It imbued the night with shades of family, all gone now; I could almost hear my mother, feel the caress of her warm hand upon my face. I sat down on one of the rocks and jammed my hands in my pockets as the cool fall wind rocked the skiff behind me.
Mike is a bit of a poet. I do like his POV better because it seems just a hair more lyrical. And I think I actually like Mike more as a character.
I think I like this paragraph, too, though it's a bit pretentious. "Howling dark" lays it on too thick, for example.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with my back to the rock and the moon much higher in the night sky. My watch confirmed the lateness of the hour, and I got up, groaning at the stiffness in my back. Fortunately the skiff was still faithfully moored, as the thought of walking the entire way back wasn't pleasant.
Moray was entirely dark, the only light my kitchen window that drew me back to its cheery warmth. The wind had died down but the incessant chill continued and my hands ached. The dock stood out in sharp relief to the misty waters and I grounded my skiff on the shore next to hers.
The leaves rustled and scattered as I walked up to the big porch. The light in my window was a ghostly beacon to lead me out of the night air. I closed the doors and locked them behind me, and as I turned to hang up my coat I realized that she was watching me from the entryway to her side of the house.
"You're up late," she commented, her tone so casual that to an outsider it might have seemed like she was expressing an opinion about the weather. I knew her better, though.
But he's all mysterious boy and refuses to explain further, unlike Sarah, narration central.
And no, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"I was out on the breakwall," I said, purposely matching her casual tone.
She nodded absently, and I could clearly see how exhausted she was; this season had been unusually hectic due to the exceptionally clear weather we'd had all summer. She yawned and turned away, one arm reaching out to turn her kitchen light on.
I paused, not entirely sure what she was doing until she switched on the coffee pot and set a mug down next to it. "You're getting up?" I asked her in disbelief.
She shrugged absently. "Got to in a half hour anyways." She walked off into her living room groggily.
I felt a pang of guilt for waking her out of much needed sleep. Rubbing my eyes tiredly I went to my side of the house, where I poured some o.j. and sat down at the table. Yesterday's paper lay unread on the table--I'd picked up a copy at Lenore's--and I unfolded it. Nothing on the front page really caught my eye so I set it down again and drank the last of the orange juice.
I call it "orange juice" and "o.j." in the same paragraph. Should be consistent and figure out what the character would call it and stick to that.
I really don't need to add much to this part. I like it better than the other stuff, though. The difference in the POVs is too slight, though. This all should probably be third person rotating. And Mike's POV should have come up a LOT sooner than this. It's a bit late to introduce another POV, and that makes it a bit jarring.
On to part seven
Read this section without the commentary
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-09 02:20 pm (UTC)