The conversation about story and storytelling continues unabated over at the Literary Lab and an incredible converation it is. Go on over and check it out.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.