![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icepixieUnlike many writers--if the massive amount of story prompt (often with an opening sentence) books/websites/what-have-yous out there are to be believed--I have no trouble getting a piece started. I have approximately eight billion files with just a few opening sentences in them. My problem is going somewhere with that opening bit. (This actually ties into a post/poll I plan to make soon, covering some, but not all, of the same ground as this poll and discussion from last summer.)
So for this one, I turn to you, gentle flist. I have the following passage. Tell me what to do with it.
The bit of snow that fell last night dusted the surface of the world: dark-shingled roofs, the tips of still-green blades of grass, the jagged remnants of cornstalks which had been threshed three weeks ago. The cold hit us with the bitterness that only the first snow of winter can have; the cruel unexpectedness of it after eight months without burned in our lungs. Even the sun seemed frozen in the sky that afternoon, none of the heat that had been so oppressive in the summer reaching us now.
Jim and I sat on the old trestle bridge, our legs hanging off the edge, watching the sluggish progress of the Bird River twenty feet below. In another month, there would be days and weeks where it would freeze solid.
Who are these people? Why are they sitting on a bridge (one very familiar to certain people, I'm sure ;)) in November, freezing their butts off? I honestly have no idea, and I have no clue where to go with it. I think this is why I usually stick to writing poetry.
(Incidentally, this is an excellent example of what I'm talking about in the post linked above, about how setting usually shows up first in the writing process for me.)
So for this one, I turn to you, gentle flist. I have the following passage. Tell me what to do with it.
The bit of snow that fell last night dusted the surface of the world: dark-shingled roofs, the tips of still-green blades of grass, the jagged remnants of cornstalks which had been threshed three weeks ago. The cold hit us with the bitterness that only the first snow of winter can have; the cruel unexpectedness of it after eight months without burned in our lungs. Even the sun seemed frozen in the sky that afternoon, none of the heat that had been so oppressive in the summer reaching us now.
Jim and I sat on the old trestle bridge, our legs hanging off the edge, watching the sluggish progress of the Bird River twenty feet below. In another month, there would be days and weeks where it would freeze solid.
Who are these people? Why are they sitting on a bridge (one very familiar to certain people, I'm sure ;)) in November, freezing their butts off? I honestly have no idea, and I have no clue where to go with it. I think this is why I usually stick to writing poetry.
(Incidentally, this is an excellent example of what I'm talking about in the post linked above, about how setting usually shows up first in the writing process for me.)
no subject
Date: 2006-08-09 04:53 pm (UTC)Maybe...
See it's more along the lines of typing what u think should happen until u get the characters so annoyed with you that they start telling you what really should be happening.
Interesting. The only thing I think should happen here is that the characters say, "Jesus, it's freezing! What the hell are we doing out here?" and go home. *g*
no subject
Date: 2006-08-10 04:25 am (UTC)End it on a high note where they're not upset w/ each other but parting amicably so they can joke about the cold and go home *G*