I am writing my novelette The Poetess, and nearing its completion. Here is something I wrote to myself about a particular scene: "Seconds tick away; where do they go? The cartoon mind giggles hellishly at harsh reality, and that reality is a big truck, nasty and old—with lots of wear and tear on its red, chipping paint, showing dedication and perseverance for the amaranthine road of weary travelers, dedicated cargo messengers, heroes of the asphalt. But, this huge Peterbilt, cerise truck that I must write about this morning…its cargo is Quietus, and its throttle wide-open as it weaves recklessly in and out of passenger cars and tiny, insignificant trucks. Why must the Muse haunt me with this portion of our tale? Answer: it must be done. But, the simple answer is that I am afraid. The truck driver is out of his mind, and his truck is the most dangerous on the road. When I begin writing this, I will spiral out of control and the scenes….oh my goddess, the awful scenes built on crushed and war-like adjectives will haunt me for the rest of my life!" ~Danielle Sainte-Marie
Posted on: Thu, 25 Jul 2013 13:57:28 +0000
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