I’ve been doing my homework from the Voicing Workshop. Ten unrelated sentences every night before bed. Here’s last night’s installment:
1. A shrill young thing, blond hair flying, slams and locks the door. 2. Apropos to the scene, but in French the usage is probably different. 3. Snacking itself can make you sweaty. 4. Toil, even writing, is that bent-forward posture to be avoided or corrected upon standing. 5. A muted cacophony of wings. 6. There are so many outfits buried in storage; I’ve completely lost track. 7. I should be listening in more often. 8. Is inspiration competitive? 9. More boxes–roughly double–were filled with his initials than with mine. 10. Is Eggs Dostoevsky because of the smoked salmon or because it’s served cold?
Typing the sentences up, I feel the editor in me chiming in–“One of those isn’t even a sentence,” and so forth. I write fiction, not poetry, so I also find myself immediately starting to read a throughline into the sequence: here, something about a rich girl heading for a breakdown. I think the next step would be to combine a few weeks’ worth of this stuff on the screen and mess around with cut & paste. Or–ooh, yeah–print it out and take a set of pencil crayons to it.