Word Paint Blogfest

The frawesome Dawn Embers brings us today's blogfest: Word Paint Blogfest. Here's the deets, as well as links to the others. Check them out - some beautiful descriptions by lovely writers.

Here's the gist of the blogfest:

The book is Word Paint: A Guide to Writing More Descriptively by Rebecca McClanahan. According to the book:

"Like painters, writers are the receptors of sensations from the real world and the world of the imagination, and effective description demands we sharpen our instruments of perception."

"Description is an attempt to present as directly as possible the qualities of a person, place, object or event. When we describe, we make impressions, attempting through language to represent reality. Description is, in effect, word painting."

So...my scene. This was written very early in the process of creating Promise and Purpose, from when it was one book. This is the first half of a preface that was deleted and never really looked at since (so I apologize for its roughness). I might one day post the whole thing as a teaser. :-) I don't know if it qualifies as word painting, but it's pretty descriptive.

The speedboat couldn’t reach the island fast enough for Sophia. She stood at the bow, watching with impatience as the island slowly grew larger in the darkness. The wind whipped her dark auburn hair against her face but she didn’t notice the stings on her skin. She was focused on getting there, the upcoming conversation and getting back. She had very little time.

She had told her daughter she would only be gone for the weekend. She hated leaving her there alone with him. She didn’t know if she could trust him and prayed that she hadn’t put her daughter’s life at risk. But that was why she had to come.

She could have made a simple phone call, but she didn’t want just verbal answers. She wanted to feel the responses, to know the truth in them. And that could only be accomplished in person.

She could flash only about a hundred miles at a time, forcing her to the confines and time restrictions of an airplane, just like everyone else. It was frustratingly slow. Each one-way flight was fourteen hours. That didn’t leave her much time to get the information she needed to calm her fears…or to change their minds.

As the driver approached, Sophia could already feel the magic of the island. She felt her body automatically shedding the years of intense control, as if a second skin was falling off of her and slipping into the water. After so many years of being on guard, she could just let go and be herself. She had forgotten the exhilarating feeling. Too anxious to wait, she jumped from the slowing boat and easily cleared the ten feet to the dock.

Although she had such little time and she could have been at the door in the blink of an eye, she strode up the path to the mansion. It was a hurried walk for the average person, but slow enough for her that she could pull her thoughts together one more time.

She hadn’t been to the island since her daughter was just an infant. It hadn’t changed. The tall Cyprus trees lined the uphill path, leading to a walkway framed with stone arches, which had at one time intimidated her with their ancient history. She barely noticed them now. She focused on the primordial stone mansion that glowed white in the darkness, reflecting the moon’s light. She could see dim, flickering lights in the deep windows.

A familiar, lanky man opened the heavy, wood front door for her.

“Good evening, Ms. Sophia,” he said politely. “Ms. Katerina is expecting you.”

Of course she was. It was virtually impossible to surprise Rina, but at least, Sophia planned it so there was not enough time for Rina to call a counsel. As their matriarch, Rina was fully capable of providing the answers Sophia sought. And Sophia wanted straight answers, directly from Rina, not contrived ones from the council.

“Hello, my beloved,” said a soft, feminine voice. The stunning woman seemed to float down the massive stone stairs in a long, silver, satiny gown. Even in the immense, dark foyer, lit only by the flames in the wall sconces, her beauty was remarkable. The resemblance between Rina and Sophia was striking. The average human, with their average eyes, would believe them to be sisters, possibly twins. Sophia’s face was a little softer, though, the angles not as sharp. Although it had been eighteen years since they had seen each other, neither had changed.

Rina wrapped her arms around Sophia. “I have missed you so.”

“Hello, Mother.” Sophia stiffly returned the hug.

Share Your Darlings Blogfest

It's another blogfest! Yay!!! I love these, if you haven't noticed. They're fun to participate in, you get to know other writers and I always find it interesting how so many writers can tackle the same theme in so many different ways.

Of course, this one isn't written around a theme. It's simply about sharing those scenes we love but had to cut from our stories because they didn't pull their weight in moving things along. This is from Promise (which comes out in July, by the way...and you can pre-order here... Oops! Sorry! But it's my blog so I can throw in a little self-promo if I want. Haha). Anywaaaayyyy...onto the set-up.

In the first two chapters (found here), you meet Alexis and she meets Tristan, who is seemingly perfect in every way (on the surface, anyway). For a variety of reasons, Alexis has a hard time trusting anyone, but she really wants to trust Tristan...even when her mother doesn't. When mom goes out of town for a weekend, things start heating up between Alexis and Tristan. I wrote this whole glorious weekend they spent together - sweet and lovely and a dream-come-true for Alexis.

It gave some character insight, but, alas, this part, in particular, just didn't do enough. There's a little of it still in the book, but not the whole, sweet thing. This scene takes place on Sunday, the last day of their time without mom breathing down her back. Tristan is about to take her on a motorcycle ride - until now, she'd only been on the bike for a couple blocks at a time.

“You’ll want to put on jeans and real shoes. No flip-flops for this ride,” he said to me. I hurriedly changed and pulled my hair back.

We cruised the streets of Cape Heron, and then headed for I-75. Holy crap! What am I thinking? I momentarily panicked as I realized I had absolutely no control over my situation. I had put my life into his hands. I squeezed my eyes shut and held on tightly, my muscles tense like a taut rubber band as the wind rushed against my face and the sounds of cars and trucks seemed way too close. Exhaust fumes and the faint smell of hot rubber filled my nose. My knuckles were white by the time we exited the highway and I breathed a sigh of relief that we survived.

Now that it felt safe to keep my eyes open, I noticed we were headed to a barrier island. At the slower speed and with less traffic, the ride was spectacular, especially once on the island. The sun shone brightly in the clear October sky and I could smell the oily warmth rising off the pavement, as well as the salty sea air and meat on the grill from a distant restaurant. I leaned over and held onto Tristan, resting my head against his shoulder, as we cruised parallel to the Gulf of Mexico, enjoying the view. He stopped the bike in a small beach parking lot and we sat there, looking over the sugary sand and steel-blue water, watching as pelicans dive-bombed for their food. A couple of dolphins jumped and twisted in the air, playing with each other.

“Nice, huh?” Tristan asked.

“Perfect,” I breathed. I was still close against him, my arms wrapped around his waist. He held my hands in front of him.

“Let’s take a walk and stretch our legs, then I’ll take you to dinner at a cool little place I found a couple weeks ago.”

We held hands as we walked along the beach and I couldn’t help the smile that was pasted on my face. Every time I looked at Tristan, he, too, was grinning.

“You like it here, don’t you?” I asked.

He looked down at me. “I like being with you. It makes me…happy.”

“Me, too.”

He squeezed my hand. “Hungry?”

I shrugged. I could be whatever he wanted me to be at that moment. As long as it meant more time with him. “Sure.”

He took me to a little hole-in-the-wall tiki bar and grill for dinner. It literally had a big hole in the wall – one side was open to the outside. When we walked in, several people – employees and customers alike – gave us a warm hello, like we were old friends. A couple of TVs silently displayed news and sports, while Jimmy Buffet sang “Margaritaville” from a boom box. Painted oars, lobster baskets and other boating and beach paraphernalia decorated the three solid walls. Tristan led me to a faded wooden booth by the wide opening, holding his hand out for me to take a seat. He slid in next to me, instead of sitting on the other side, and put his arm around me, holding me close. I warmed inside, totally content. From where we sat, we could see a canal outside the restaurant lead west about two hundred yards to the Gulf. A couple of boats pulled up, their owners and mates coming for drinks and dinner.

“Know what you want?” Tristan asked after we studied the stained paper menu for a few minutes.

“Hmm…I think the shrimp combo.”

He stood up to place our order at the bar and I took the opportunity to use the bathroom. When I came back to the table, I had to stifle a giggle. He held a purple crayon in his hand, drawing something on the white paper tablecloth, like a little kid. When I looked, I realized it was me, drawn from memory.

“Nice,” I murmured.

“Yeah, well, sorry you’re purple.” He chuckled.

I glanced at the two other crayons on the table.

“At least I’m not green.”

He laughed.

“Purple’s good. It’s my favorite color,” I added.

“Ah. Good to know.”

I drew him next – a stick figure. It was the best I could do, I told him. He laughed and hugged me, apparently forgiving the fact that I wasn’t multi-talented like him. We played a few games of tic-tac-toe and hangman – he beat me at the first and I beat him at the latter – while we waited for our dinner. The bartender brought our food to us.

“Oh, now, hold on a minute. We can’t ruin that,” she said when she saw Tristan’s crayon drawing of me. She put our food down on the next table and quickly replaced the paper tablecloth with a blank slate. She took our old one and disappeared with it. She brought back my drawing, cut out in an oval from the rest of the tablecloth, and handed it to me, her eyes crinkling at the sides with a smile. “Here you go, hon.”

The people there were quite a bit older than us, but friendly with everyone who walked in. It was apparently a popular gathering place for the locals. When Tristan told them we’d recently moved to the area, they told us about good and bad beaches and restaurants and the best places to go on a boat or a motorcycle. Their stories were humorous and we laughed a lot.

That evening I learned what it was like to feel normal. In fact, I forgot for a while that I even had any weird quirks. Nobody treated me like an outsider and I didn’t feel the need to make myself blend into the scenery. I didn’t worry about my wall or who I couldn’t trust. For once, I was completely at ease.

After we finished eating the best seafood I’d had since moving there, Tristan moved over to the other side of the table so he could have clean, blank paper. He went to work with a red crayon and drew a portrait of the bartender/waitress. When he was done, he threw some money on the table and held his hand out for me to go. I quickly wrote “Thank you!” by his drawing, then walked out with him, arms around each other’s waists. I felt like the heroine in a movie…with a “happily-ever-after” ending, of course. I ignored the poke in the back of my mind – the one that wanted to tell me that my ending could never be happy.