As indicated in my post Gull and Chain, I have devoted most of my writing time this summer to developing my period piece taking place at a fictional flax farm manor in Northern Ireland, Ken Kerr. And, because I am odd, I have to make this love story as tragic as humanly possible, because flax is not very sexy my fellow Forgers, and I feel romance is dead. DEAD.
(Oh, these young folk...if they only knew how love stormed those seas of doubt and romance rode those exotic waves of passion -- before the click of an app. Tsk. Tsk. Yes, I'm Mister Romantic! I know what I'm lecturing you about!).
In all seriousness (although romance is truly dead, except perhaps at the Moir homestead...I strongly suspect each of Mike's fables is analogous to a steamy autobiographical moment), fewer than fourteen days have I missed not expanding or editing or totally deleting scenes and descriptions from my story. With the help of Google Docs, I find myself reconsidering and rewriting my Irish story's dialogue, paragraphs, and chapters during traffic jams on Meridian Street, on my small breaks between assays and timed conditions, and --much to the annoyance of my family-- in-between having ordered dinner at Mama Corolla's and waiting for its delivery.
"No, Scott. I'm not giving you my phone. Ah! Don't-touch-my-phone. I'll put it away. Geez." (Psst! Romance. Is. Dead. White. Clam. Linguine. Arrives!)
I share one of those edited chapters (but new to you. Please share your expert critiques. I have several drafts ahead of me, no 'doubt'): Doubt and Petulance. My protagonist, Sir Robert Taylor, is the son of an abusive English baron. I thought Sir Robert's impulsive and indecisive behavior; his tormented, doubting mind could be explained partially by living under his misanthropist father's rule. I counter that force, albeit unevenly (and purposefully), with the creation of a kind, thoughtful, and honest grandfather who knows all too well his grandson's predilection to solitude, to reading fiction and writing poetry instead of mastering Hedge Manor's land and farm wealth; and to survive yet another day regardless of accomplishment.
I also needed to discovery how Sir Robert ends up owning an old flax farm and manor in Ireland that comes with a lovely and brilliant lady, Ceara, and her equally brilliant, if more sensual brother, Hugh. Ah...is that fair? To claim Hugh sensual? Or, was Hugh only a man whose knots unto Sir Robert simply could not be undone?
|All is gray when Flax is blue....|