Projekt Luna: an entrepôt of raw materials for new stories by etm. Signals and sensations and emotions and ideas and words and inspirations and journeys and pixels and updates.
It won’t be. But more words are added. A creeping barrage of plotcharactersetting. I may call a truce and leave it in a drawer to ferment and foment. We’ll see.
makes the dim world of dawn into
an extravagant Bohemian cake
hot crisp dortý served with chilled cream
ices tendrils fronds, postbox wedding cake
A very British menu. The things a millionnaire may pine for. Under the southern Californian sun. Falling for the comforting fallacy of decline to explain away their exile?
Or, more, a hiatus.
After writing 45,000 words, the story has ground to a halt. The July Crisis’ October crisis? No. Just a time to pause, think and regenerate the story.
At the moment, I’m listening a lot to how people speak. Dialogue needs its own syntax, as well as lexis, and I need to work it out. So, instead of hitting the prose, I’m writing some transient bits of poetry, a scattering of iambs, ellipsis and minor sentences.
November. Or maybe December. Back to the prose again.
names fall like blessings
on roads schools trains awards
a rebel a traitor
blood stains knapped flint
They come from everywhere on the boats. And no one wants them when they arrive. Again, not a horrible vision of the future. This is today.
Well, summer is over and the story has added 35,000 words, numerous characters, places, events and, more importantly, a title.
Let it be known that the story in progress shall hereafter go by the name of: The July Crisis.
Portentuous, thrilling with a pleasing rhythm and more than a nod to the slide to war in July 1914. Never let it be said I flinch from the big stories.
So now the story is growing into itself, and into its title. Sometimes it feels like it’s taken on a life of its own. (By the way, great navigation of an apostrophe minefield there etm. Hey thanks mysterious interlocutor. After all, I am a professional. Laughter. Freeze frame.)
So, through autumn and winter, it will grow. More extracts here soon. À tout!
cold salt spray rolls off eyelashes and cheeks, tasty, thirsty
running laughing late along the pier in inky night
lights string along the coast, a hint of dawn
a breathless kiss pushed up against chill cast iron
— Alex Hern (@alexhern) July 26, 2013