Here's one I've been puzzling over, gang.
I have a story in progress where two people occupy one body: an amnesiac Irish druid is semi-possessed by the soul of her twelve-century-old sister, Gwyn. Don't ask.
Point is, I need a style for the internal dialogue between the two women. For internal monologue, I heavily favor italics, but things get iffy on speaker identity when two people are thinking. In the real world, i.e. non-Lit, I'd just assign the sister her own font. My understanding though is that the html coding for Lit postings is limited to italics and bold.
Anyone have a suggestion on what to do in Lit land?
An example of the kind of passage I'm talking about is below.
*
We raced through the cellar door and out into the open field, Tabitha leading the way. She tripped after only a few yards, her legs too tired and awkward from being bound. Molly helped her up, urging her sister on though she was clearly exhausted too.
It doesn’t matter, Kay. None of us will be able to outrun what’s coming.
I know.
We were barely a quarter of the way across the field when the galloping of heavy paws sounded behind us. Well-toothed death was on its way. One of them let loose a rough-throated bay at the moon.
The moon. A full moon. It tickled my skin and in a very good way. Oh thank you, Brighde. Thank you. I jerked my sweater up and over my head, throwing it behind me while keeping pace behind the girls. My blouse joined it. My bra would be next.
Umm, Kay?
It’s okay, I know what I’m doing. Maybe.
I pulled the bra up over my head, still running. Thank god for being small-chested.
You’re going to shift?
Nope.
We’re going to distract the werewolves with our half-naked body?
Uh-uh.
Oh thank heaven. I’d rather be eaten than raped then eaten. And what’s that humming sound?
The moon, honey, the moon. It’s filling me up.
It was, utterly, I could barely hear Gwyn over it, pulsing and twisting and humming under my skin. I was drowning in it. Choking on it. Drunk on it. It dribbled from my mouth and nose, trickled from my eyes and down my cheeks.
This was power, true power, the kind my father’s kin had once borne to battle.
Battle? We’re fighting?
Yes, love, we’re fighting.
Finally! Now, if only we had something pointy.
We don’t need anything pointy, Gwynny, not on a night like this...
*
I have a story in progress where two people occupy one body: an amnesiac Irish druid is semi-possessed by the soul of her twelve-century-old sister, Gwyn. Don't ask.
Point is, I need a style for the internal dialogue between the two women. For internal monologue, I heavily favor italics, but things get iffy on speaker identity when two people are thinking. In the real world, i.e. non-Lit, I'd just assign the sister her own font. My understanding though is that the html coding for Lit postings is limited to italics and bold.
Anyone have a suggestion on what to do in Lit land?
An example of the kind of passage I'm talking about is below.
*
We raced through the cellar door and out into the open field, Tabitha leading the way. She tripped after only a few yards, her legs too tired and awkward from being bound. Molly helped her up, urging her sister on though she was clearly exhausted too.
It doesn’t matter, Kay. None of us will be able to outrun what’s coming.
I know.
We were barely a quarter of the way across the field when the galloping of heavy paws sounded behind us. Well-toothed death was on its way. One of them let loose a rough-throated bay at the moon.
The moon. A full moon. It tickled my skin and in a very good way. Oh thank you, Brighde. Thank you. I jerked my sweater up and over my head, throwing it behind me while keeping pace behind the girls. My blouse joined it. My bra would be next.
Umm, Kay?
It’s okay, I know what I’m doing. Maybe.
I pulled the bra up over my head, still running. Thank god for being small-chested.
You’re going to shift?
Nope.
We’re going to distract the werewolves with our half-naked body?
Uh-uh.
Oh thank heaven. I’d rather be eaten than raped then eaten. And what’s that humming sound?
The moon, honey, the moon. It’s filling me up.
It was, utterly, I could barely hear Gwyn over it, pulsing and twisting and humming under my skin. I was drowning in it. Choking on it. Drunk on it. It dribbled from my mouth and nose, trickled from my eyes and down my cheeks.
This was power, true power, the kind my father’s kin had once borne to battle.
Battle? We’re fighting?
Yes, love, we’re fighting.
Finally! Now, if only we had something pointy.
We don’t need anything pointy, Gwynny, not on a night like this...
*