NeonSubtlety
I'm a guy. I promise.
- Joined
- May 16, 2010
- Posts
- 13,298
I know there are illustrated stories--the idea being that visuals help evoke a mood or thought the author wants from his reader. I'm curious how many stories have musical accompaniment. And what you think of the idea. I'd like to give you an example and see if it helps or hinders any story telling.
First, I must admit that I haven't written prose in 5 or 6 years...and I wasn't good at it to begin with. Secondly, I've never written erotic literature. But, for whatever reason, I had a story I wanted to tell...and poetry wasn't the right vehicle for it. It's not aggressive. In fact, I think that by the end, I'll be looking at something more flowery than it is sexually stimulating. It's also likely to be long. Seeing that I'm not sure what this is or where I'm going with it, I figured I would just let it go and worry about editing afterward. But, i hope that won't ruin your impression altogether.
If you think it's an idea that I can run with...but which simply needs editing and refinement, I have a few issues I'm specifically worried about:
1) do you feel the songs need to complete before starting a new one...as to avoid a splintered feel?
2) how much more alienating can a different taste in music be than a different taste in photographs or paintings?
3) does it feel cheesy?
first excerpt (songs meant to be listened to as background when reading. Links are in appropriate places). Sorry about the formatting. Just pasted from word:
“I’m really sorry to do this to you, Chris.” Brandon looked at me, holding attention in a hostage situation. The final joints of his fingers bent, painfully, as he fingered each wooden square. “Acquire. Triple word score.”
“How long have you been holding that Q?” I asked.
“Since the beginning,” Brandon chuckled. The wet spots in his eyes and pink in his cheeks revealed just how pleased he was with himself.
Simultaneously, Brandon and I leaned back in our seats. I fell onto a scratch of rough cotton. He fell into waiting legs. Not expecting them, he turned to find his girlfriend had wedged herself in the warm nook between him and the heavy couch cushion she’d befriended.
“Kate Nash?” I asked, as I changed the playlist. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryH5cga0yUI)
“Jesus,” Brandon said to Lauren. “How do you even fit there?”
Lauren was Brandon’s girlfriend. The three of us had become good friends over the past couple of months. Laura was finishing up her third year of college. Brad spent his days cold-calling businessmen about their outstanding debts. And I, having avoided every lead towards employment in the three months since graduating from law school, rounded out our trio of indigence. We spent our weekends pinching pennies and learning that you didn’t need more than pennies to be happy.
This was a normal Friday night—board games and cheap alcohol. Brandon and Laura lived together in a converted hotel room from the early 20th century. The fold-out dining room table and shadowy wooden frames had all the charm of the turn of the century. But their shaky ceiling fan instantly placed you in some shady, paint-peeling back room in Mumbai. We bared it well enough, however, along with the inevitable stream of company that packed the apartment, like sardines, each weekend.
“More wine?” Laura asked me.
“Please. I need an excuse for this headache. I can’t let Brandon know it’s because of him.” There was a slight chuckle by all of us as Brandon moved towards the kitchen, grabbing at a handle of vodka with a label that would’ve been foreign to a Russian linguist.
“Shot?”
“Nah,” I responded. “Some of us enjoy drinking.” Lauren smirked at me, proud that we could share a joke at his expense.
It wasn’t all that uncommon for us to get drunk and curl ourselves in one of the many nooks the old apartment had to offer. Most often, Brandon and Lauren would end up on top of the covers of their bed, Lauren’s unrequited spoon just showy enough to be sad. I would lay my 6’5’’ frame across the same love seat where Lauren often wedged herself, and lay each of my extremities like peninsulas on their oak hardwood. On this night, our friends had long excused themselves. We were alone. The three of us were alone.
Lauren and I continued to pour glass after glass of a Cabernet mix into her hand-me-down tulips. Meanwhile, Brandon periodically excused himself to sneak in a shot and hiding a facial expression that begged for a sneeze, but couldn’t muster it. Starting a sentence from one such unsatisfied sneeze, he asked,
“Are you going to dance at Jacob’s wedding?” Lauren looked puzzled by the question.
“Jacob asked us to do some group dance in tuxedos,” I explained. “Yeah. I can’t see telling him I won’t do it.”
“Is it going to be like the YouTube video?”
“If we’re lucky,” I said.
“I need to know.” Brad pulled out his phone. After a moment, he apologetically spoke to his phone, staring at it as if to evoke some response. “Jacob! Duuuude! I can’t dance. Can I just watch? I’m sorry. I wish I could dance for you!”
I stood up and began to walk Brandon over to his bed. I took his phone from him and handed it to Lauren.
“Okay, fella. What music do you want to sleep to tonight?”
After laying him down and sitting down across from Lauren who, by now, had found her favorite spot in the loveseat, I began to look through his music for something lovely. I looked up from the bright incandescence of a laptop to see Lauren staring at the crack between the cushions. Her wine balanced uncomfortably in one hand, while the other brushed its cool, soft knuckles along the fabric. I could cover her hands twice over with mine. I could eclipse her completely. But her featherduster fingertips could down me in a stroke. She suddenly broke her stare.
“What about this?” I spoke quickly. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=774mOmdKtZM)
First, I must admit that I haven't written prose in 5 or 6 years...and I wasn't good at it to begin with. Secondly, I've never written erotic literature. But, for whatever reason, I had a story I wanted to tell...and poetry wasn't the right vehicle for it. It's not aggressive. In fact, I think that by the end, I'll be looking at something more flowery than it is sexually stimulating. It's also likely to be long. Seeing that I'm not sure what this is or where I'm going with it, I figured I would just let it go and worry about editing afterward. But, i hope that won't ruin your impression altogether.
If you think it's an idea that I can run with...but which simply needs editing and refinement, I have a few issues I'm specifically worried about:
1) do you feel the songs need to complete before starting a new one...as to avoid a splintered feel?
2) how much more alienating can a different taste in music be than a different taste in photographs or paintings?
3) does it feel cheesy?
first excerpt (songs meant to be listened to as background when reading. Links are in appropriate places). Sorry about the formatting. Just pasted from word:
“I’m really sorry to do this to you, Chris.” Brandon looked at me, holding attention in a hostage situation. The final joints of his fingers bent, painfully, as he fingered each wooden square. “Acquire. Triple word score.”
“How long have you been holding that Q?” I asked.
“Since the beginning,” Brandon chuckled. The wet spots in his eyes and pink in his cheeks revealed just how pleased he was with himself.
Simultaneously, Brandon and I leaned back in our seats. I fell onto a scratch of rough cotton. He fell into waiting legs. Not expecting them, he turned to find his girlfriend had wedged herself in the warm nook between him and the heavy couch cushion she’d befriended.
“Kate Nash?” I asked, as I changed the playlist. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryH5cga0yUI)
“Jesus,” Brandon said to Lauren. “How do you even fit there?”
Lauren was Brandon’s girlfriend. The three of us had become good friends over the past couple of months. Laura was finishing up her third year of college. Brad spent his days cold-calling businessmen about their outstanding debts. And I, having avoided every lead towards employment in the three months since graduating from law school, rounded out our trio of indigence. We spent our weekends pinching pennies and learning that you didn’t need more than pennies to be happy.
This was a normal Friday night—board games and cheap alcohol. Brandon and Laura lived together in a converted hotel room from the early 20th century. The fold-out dining room table and shadowy wooden frames had all the charm of the turn of the century. But their shaky ceiling fan instantly placed you in some shady, paint-peeling back room in Mumbai. We bared it well enough, however, along with the inevitable stream of company that packed the apartment, like sardines, each weekend.
“More wine?” Laura asked me.
“Please. I need an excuse for this headache. I can’t let Brandon know it’s because of him.” There was a slight chuckle by all of us as Brandon moved towards the kitchen, grabbing at a handle of vodka with a label that would’ve been foreign to a Russian linguist.
“Shot?”
“Nah,” I responded. “Some of us enjoy drinking.” Lauren smirked at me, proud that we could share a joke at his expense.
It wasn’t all that uncommon for us to get drunk and curl ourselves in one of the many nooks the old apartment had to offer. Most often, Brandon and Lauren would end up on top of the covers of their bed, Lauren’s unrequited spoon just showy enough to be sad. I would lay my 6’5’’ frame across the same love seat where Lauren often wedged herself, and lay each of my extremities like peninsulas on their oak hardwood. On this night, our friends had long excused themselves. We were alone. The three of us were alone.
Lauren and I continued to pour glass after glass of a Cabernet mix into her hand-me-down tulips. Meanwhile, Brandon periodically excused himself to sneak in a shot and hiding a facial expression that begged for a sneeze, but couldn’t muster it. Starting a sentence from one such unsatisfied sneeze, he asked,
“Are you going to dance at Jacob’s wedding?” Lauren looked puzzled by the question.
“Jacob asked us to do some group dance in tuxedos,” I explained. “Yeah. I can’t see telling him I won’t do it.”
“Is it going to be like the YouTube video?”
“If we’re lucky,” I said.
“I need to know.” Brad pulled out his phone. After a moment, he apologetically spoke to his phone, staring at it as if to evoke some response. “Jacob! Duuuude! I can’t dance. Can I just watch? I’m sorry. I wish I could dance for you!”
I stood up and began to walk Brandon over to his bed. I took his phone from him and handed it to Lauren.
“Okay, fella. What music do you want to sleep to tonight?”
After laying him down and sitting down across from Lauren who, by now, had found her favorite spot in the loveseat, I began to look through his music for something lovely. I looked up from the bright incandescence of a laptop to see Lauren staring at the crack between the cushions. Her wine balanced uncomfortably in one hand, while the other brushed its cool, soft knuckles along the fabric. I could cover her hands twice over with mine. I could eclipse her completely. But her featherduster fingertips could down me in a stroke. She suddenly broke her stare.
“What about this?” I spoke quickly. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=774mOmdKtZM)
