So, as my about page states…. about me (ha!), I write. Currently as a hobby. Wanting to make it a career.
What it doesn’t say, though, is that I’m writing a novel.
And what I’m about to do is super nerve-wracking. But in a good way?
I’m putting up bits of my novel. Unedited, seen by no-one other than myself (until now). It won’t be the entire thing – just pieces here and there, to give you a taste of what I’m doing. No real context, nothing. I might put up a synopsis later, but since I’m still writing it, I have all creative rights to change it however the characters deem fit. The length will also vary; this first one is very short, just a part of a scene.
So – Shiny Bit O’Prose I
“It shouldn’t mean anything to you, little one,” the elf began, brushing his hair from his face in a frustrated gesture. “That is a portrait of my late mother, may she be at peace.”
Emma looked at him, confused, and then back at the painting. The woman, no, Elf, was so familiar to her. The hair, the way she held herself, even the nose. Emma couldn’t place it, but she knew that she had seen her somewhere before, and it was going to bother her until she placed it.
“Cyril! There you are. Father is looking for….” the second Elf trailed off as he stared at the pair. His eyes shifted to the portrait, then back to Emma. He let out a curse in a language that Emma didn’t understand, but made Cyril look at him sharply.
“Was that really necessary, brother? Why is Father looking for me?”
“He wants to talk about the situation with the Giants. You were the one up there with them, so you are the one with the information. However, he is going to want to see her. Who are you?”
“My name is Emma. Emma Grey. And I would just like to get back home, please.”
“Who is your kin, child?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The unknown Elf sighed. “Your kin, child, your kin! Your father? Mother? What family do you belong to?”
“I just told you, my surname is Grey. My father is Alexander. I hail from Nottinghamshire, in England. If you would be so kind as to point me in that direction, I would be forever grateful.”
Now Cyril’s calculating face was turned to her. He frowned, and then turned back to his brother.
“Dae.” It was all he needed to say, apparently, as his brother turned to him. They stared at each other for a few minutes before each nodded. Emma had wondered at the possibility of twins communicating silently, but had never before seen it in action. She was jostled from her admiration as Cyril grabbed her arm.
“Come. Father will want to see you.”
She couldn’t tear herself away as she was marched down the grand staircase and down corridors until they reached their destination.
And that’s all she wrote. For now. Thoughts are always appreciated, darlings.
Also, does anyone have any good recommendations for books on Victorian England? If so, leave them (along with your thoughts) in the comments.
Image via The Writers Helpers