Wednesday, February 25, 2015

3,000 words into it

Proztvetanov posed, a stack of lumpy black shadow silhouetted against the French windows of his immense ancient library. He stood close enough to the windows that his breath clouded one of the panes. Before him stretched a broad avenue buried under several feet of new-fallen snow, the lime trees ranked along either side rigidly at attention beneath their own tons of snow. The cloudless sky was hard and pale silver until the sun had half-cleared the horizon and then the colors of the world shifted to deep reds and heavy black shadows in bands lying aslant through the avenue as if the land were breaking apart while the lord of the estate watched with sustained pleasure. The sun climbed higher, the atmosphere lost its saturation of red and as the morning came into full wintry glory the snow became once more white and glistening, the shadows deep blue and the heavens a breathtaking spectrum of robin's egg to Caspian Sea and then Proztvetanov gave himself up to loud, hearty laughter, the rasp of which roused Antosha from a light sleep.

Blogger is not letting me comment today, here or anywhere else, so I content myself with quoting the first paragraph (a rough draft) of the story "The Snow Storm." I'm about 3,000 words into this particular story. It seems okay so far.

2 comments:

  1. Chekov in the Paris Review daily: http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/02/23/autobiography-with-oysters-orgy/

    I especially like the land as if breaking apart...

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  2. "Write what you like. If you haven’t facts make up with lyricism." That's good stuff.

    I'm reading the second half of Glimmerglass again, because I want to write about hawthorns and angels. We'll see if I come up with anything worth posting.

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