So, I’m doing a sort of flash writing challenge thing to get one of the fiction I've been writing for ages, moving. It’s honestly more about getting into the habit of regular writing than writing the fiction itself. Because these days, all that I am being, is lazy.
Lack of motivation is also another factor that is in play, but hopefully, with this, and a bunch of other challenges I’ve given myself, I’ll finally be able to get back on track. So I will be making 30 posts of this, abit not every day. But I will keep on writing until I complete it.
The sort of list thing I picked out for the next 30 days is actually a list designed for fiction and novel writing in general. So without any further ado, let’s get into it.
Day One: Write Six Possible First Sentences for your Novel.
Now, six lines is something that I feel is too short for me to write. As I am generally someone who grabs a pen and cannot, for the life of her, put it down until she gets a particular sort of structure. My writing is sort of, umm...scene base, and because of that, it's hard to just stop, before the scene comes to a complete.
This is why, instead of writing only six lines, I've decided to modify and write the first scene of my fiction. Let's see what comes out of it!
When he was nine years old, on a bright summer day, his mother died.
Looking at it now, the scene looked awfully like a scene ripped out from a movie in his head, blurry around the edges with just the perfect amount of lighting that he was sure was the doing of his hyperactive imagination.
The way she sat, head down on the small tea table beside the window, with one hand tucked elegantly under her forehead, eyes shut like she was asleep. The only sign that gave her out was the tea set shattered on the ground. It was her favourite set of china.
He remembered it was a sunny day because of how the sun rays were reflecting off of her silver-blonde hair, making the strands look golden and her usually pale skin orange. The china cup she always drank tea from was the only one that survived the fall from the table, and it laid tilted on the floor, surrounded by the splash of blue tea that gave the whole thing a sort of poetic effect. The room was drowsed in the scent of lavender, her favourite flower, which was stacked neatly on the counter in the corner of the tea room.
She died a blue death, they said.
With blue tea as her companion. Even the long summer dress she wore that day was of pale blue. She had always been a fan of dramatics. So, for her to choose such a theatrical leave, it wasn’t all that surprising, not to the people who knew her at least.
He could still hear the faint sound of blues coming from the old gramophone behind her. She had a soft spot for this sort of music, and played them whenever the mood struck.
”People live their lives with the rule to satisfy,
people live their lives with the rule to satisfy,
but nobody sees you cryin'..”
The song played inside his head in a loop at the oddest of hours. He never had the desire to look up the name. It was a genre that never made sense to him. His taste in music was never as refined as his mother's, not that he cared much about it.