Liar
now with 17% more class
- Joined
- Dec 4, 2003
- Posts
- 43,715
Weirdest thing just happened. I started writing a story. (I intend to finish it, for once there is not a zillion othet things stealing my attention.) And for some reason it took on a first person narrator's perspective. But not from a story teller, but from the story itself. It has a voice,
This is new terrotiry for me, so I'm trying to find out if this will fly or just confuse the egg nog out of the readers. If somebody have the time, I would really like to hear your reaction to this opening of the story below. (Bear in mind that it's a first draft, so there may be other things that sucks about it at this point, like some dumb tense changes that I'll correct later. It's the perspective issue that I wonder about.)
Has anyone else written stories from odder perspectives than your regular 1st 2nd and 3rd dude? What are your experiences with it? Any wisdom to share?
Here's da excerpt (or opening):
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A story does not sleep. You have heard thousands, maybe more. Novels, rumors, legends and anecdotes, and you may think you have forgotten them, but they merely hide in the abandoned corridors of your mnemonic palace. A story lingers there, it's sensors spread across the perimeter of your awareness, listening, watching, sensing every nuance you experience. It waits for the spark, the trigger to recollection. Like a pollen particle in the desert, on a stubborn race against the improbable rain. If it is enough, the spark will come.
I am a story, and you will read, and probably think you forget. But I will linger, and listen. And one day I will bloom in your mind, explode in a swirl of connotations and connectors., reasons and references. Then, and only then, will you truly know why you read me.
I am the story of Lapis, who tamed lions, and Monia who tamed Lapis, and Tesla, who tamed them both. I am old, older than the tales of kings and prophets that have shaped the world of men, older than most tales of gods and monsters, although I am a tale of gods and monsters too. Most old tales are, one way or the other. But I am so old, that words of wanton, the magic of lust and the power of flesh had not yet been stained with shame. So bear with me, although concepts might seem alien, I can assure you that they are more familiar than you have been lead to believe.
I begin on the plains, in the thigh high dry grass. Sun crazy mosquitoes hover in columns over grazing small game in the distance. Sun weary seedling pods vibrates with life like they only do once every year, threatens to burst into a riot of color at the most gentle touch. There is not a sound, but the faint rustle of termites on the ground. The air is perfectly still, and so is Lapis. The only thing moving is his heart, beating on a stealth pulse. His shoulders gleam with faint drops of sweat, and strands of his hair cling to his neck. His back is straight, his head scouting, but his legs are strained, kneeling in the hunter’s stance with one closed fist in the dirt and one closed around the spear. His eyes were fixed on a huddling shape fifty steps ahead, and his lips were fixed in a daunting smile. The lion was his. It just didn’t know it yet.
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This is new terrotiry for me, so I'm trying to find out if this will fly or just confuse the egg nog out of the readers. If somebody have the time, I would really like to hear your reaction to this opening of the story below. (Bear in mind that it's a first draft, so there may be other things that sucks about it at this point, like some dumb tense changes that I'll correct later. It's the perspective issue that I wonder about.)
Has anyone else written stories from odder perspectives than your regular 1st 2nd and 3rd dude? What are your experiences with it? Any wisdom to share?
Here's da excerpt (or opening):
--------------------------------------------
A story does not sleep. You have heard thousands, maybe more. Novels, rumors, legends and anecdotes, and you may think you have forgotten them, but they merely hide in the abandoned corridors of your mnemonic palace. A story lingers there, it's sensors spread across the perimeter of your awareness, listening, watching, sensing every nuance you experience. It waits for the spark, the trigger to recollection. Like a pollen particle in the desert, on a stubborn race against the improbable rain. If it is enough, the spark will come.
I am a story, and you will read, and probably think you forget. But I will linger, and listen. And one day I will bloom in your mind, explode in a swirl of connotations and connectors., reasons and references. Then, and only then, will you truly know why you read me.
I am the story of Lapis, who tamed lions, and Monia who tamed Lapis, and Tesla, who tamed them both. I am old, older than the tales of kings and prophets that have shaped the world of men, older than most tales of gods and monsters, although I am a tale of gods and monsters too. Most old tales are, one way or the other. But I am so old, that words of wanton, the magic of lust and the power of flesh had not yet been stained with shame. So bear with me, although concepts might seem alien, I can assure you that they are more familiar than you have been lead to believe.
I begin on the plains, in the thigh high dry grass. Sun crazy mosquitoes hover in columns over grazing small game in the distance. Sun weary seedling pods vibrates with life like they only do once every year, threatens to burst into a riot of color at the most gentle touch. There is not a sound, but the faint rustle of termites on the ground. The air is perfectly still, and so is Lapis. The only thing moving is his heart, beating on a stealth pulse. His shoulders gleam with faint drops of sweat, and strands of his hair cling to his neck. His back is straight, his head scouting, but his legs are strained, kneeling in the hunter’s stance with one closed fist in the dirt and one closed around the spear. His eyes were fixed on a huddling shape fifty steps ahead, and his lips were fixed in a daunting smile. The lion was his. It just didn’t know it yet.
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