The exercise:
Let us write a scene in: the library.
Quiet day today. That's a good thing.
Oh, here's a picture of one of the birds that left those footprints the other day:
Took that picture through the window, otherwise I never would have gotten that close. Damn birds could barely hold still for half a second.
Mine:
I walk down the rows
Of mystery books,
Romances, fantasies,
And books by crooks.
I move deeper,
Where the grey dust
Lies heavy and thick,
Like literary rust.
Here the light is poor
And the reading rich,
If you happen to know
Where to find the right niche.
Here's the tome I seek
To help me move my pawns...
But wait, what is this?
All the pages are gone.
6 comments:
That's a sweet little bird! I found a patch on snow yesterday that only pigeons had been walking around on; it was really quite weird-looking. If I'd not seen the pigeons fly off I think I'd have been quite puzzled about it.
I've texted you a picture of my dog in the snow, though I think I remember you saying (now) that your phone doesn't receive pictures. I'll email it.
I like the idea of literary rust, so the second verse is my favourite. The poem flows well, but it feels like the first stanza to a longer piece. There's so much lead up to all the pages being gone that the reader wants to know what happens next. Perhaps it's time you treated us to an epic poem!
(Oh, and I'm glad you spotted the characters from my piece yesterday, I was worried I'd been too subtle!)
The Library
Shelves creak and thunder
Bowed in the middle under
The weight of books.
The weight of wisdom
As my old mentor might have said.
But she's dead.
Books fell on her head,
Abandoning their posts on the shelves.
I stay clear of their paper hell,
Unlearned, unwise, but well,
Nursing my bibliophobia.
So, I've had an idea festering in the back of my head for a possible novel idea, and I'm thinking of working in something involving that reference librarian and the detective from a prompt a week or so ago (it may've been more than a week, but time's blurring for me). I'm not entirely sure what's going to happen in the story yet, but I've had all these little bits and pieces of possible stories that I could modify and tweak into a novel. It'll be a project, the likes of which I haven't tried to tackle in earnest in quite some time.
But last time I tried something like this I didn't have folks like I have on Protag, or on ficly, and I didn't have an irl Fellowship (two friends of mine, my physics teacher, and I all discovered we write, and we've come together as a Fellowship for support. It's pretty fantastic) for support.
I'm going to see what plotting and planning I can do during the winter break, and what scraps I can do this coming semester.
And who knows? Maybe I'll be participating in NaFADOYBIMSCOM* next November.
(*Coined probably by John Green, "National Finish A Draft Of Your Book I Mean Seriously Come On Month")
marc, the bird looks similar to a robin (but the red-breasted kind) that one day flew inside my old apartment in the middle of a snow storm several years ago. had a sweet tone to its chirping. it's a nice picture. and by the way, i am having withdrawal symptoms from not having to read a jerry story. nobody crosses my path in the morning or suffer the consequences. waaaah!
now, your poem - like greg, i love the "literary rust" (probably because i could relate to it as that is where i am at right now. i can't write without a prompt. but there's a lot of ideas brewing in my head). the third stanza describes the library of old that i remember, even the smell of old books and the feel of the cloth covers. yes, i'm that old.
greg, i love the "weight of wisdom" to describe the books on a shelf. an all encompassing description. i like it!
g2, i can empathize. this novel i am writing (mostly in my head really) for the last 10 years, the bits and pieces come sporadically. i have long ago admitted that i am so reluctant to act on these ideas but i know i must, must, need, have to, write them down into a cohesive story. so...this library prompt tickled some memories from a long time ago that must be written. but i will have to write just the gist right now. yes, still reluctant.
the library
I enjoyed reading them all, great work!
Library
"shhh, please lower your volume, will ya?" The librarian with her index finger placed between mouth and nose. The kids listen for a sec and they're off to create havoc again the next minute. She walked back to her counter to serve a customer. He looked like a businessman with pretty decent outfit.
"Where do you store Warren Buffett' autobiography? I can't find it under the section that was listed in your library database. Appreciate if you could give me a hand."
"Sure, please follow me, gentleman." the lift is here.
"After you, young lady."
"Thanks! oh by the way do you know those kids?"
"yeah, they're a friend of mine.. Quite a handful isn't it? My friend kind of give up on them. They're just too much to handle. They take your words in from left ear and it escape from the right, they just refuse to listen."
"There you go, Buffett autobiography by Janet Lowe"
"Thanks a lot for your help!"
"You're most welcome!"
This started off from a different prompt, but it was fitting for this as well. I thought I would be able to move it past this point, but you know how it is, right? The holidays and all.
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Language Is A Virus
Greg - I eagerly await that picture's arrival :)
An epic poem? Perhaps.
Love the rhythm of your poem, and that's a fantastic ending.
g2 - that sounds most excellent, I hope you manage to get there :)
Summerfield - sorry about the withdrawal, I promise not to keep you waiting too long!
I'll be over at your blog to read that momentarily.
Zhongming - I like the kids in your scene :)
Heather - and I'll be at your blog right after Summer's :)
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