Six Sentence Sunday #6

Cheating a little; this is actually seven sentences. I blame Angela Goff.

Voices drifted over the garden wall from the colonnade on the other side, traveling well enough on the cool, crisp night air that I could catch snatches of the conversation, and then, as the speakers drew slowly closer, the full exchange.

“I’ve arranged for your transfer back to Rien.” I recognized Lucho Marro’s voice. “There’s no more need for you to be in Souvin.”

“The Emperor gave me my commission in Souvin personally.”

“And he’s rescinded it personally. We accomplished what we intended to accomplish there.”

A conversation with the dead

Two weeks ago I went with a friend to the release party for UWG’s literary magazine, Eclectic. It felt a little awkward to be the sole history major in a sea of hipsters English majors, but I had a good time; a lot of the work in this year’s magazine was top-notch, and the readings were quite enjoyable. The biggest draw of the party, though, probably wasn’t the magazine itself, but the fact that Edward Hirsch was present.

Here, I guess, is where my history-majorness shines forth. I had no idea who Edward Hirsch was. Apparently he is a poet. And also president of the Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. All in all, he seems pretty legit.

After the various singings and readings and award-givings, he spoke. Most of it had to do with poetry, understandably, but a lot of it had to do with writing in general–and a lot of what he said about poetry could be extrapolated to apply to writing in general.

One thing in particular stuck with me: writing can’t only be self-conscious and introspective. A writer should always write with the awareness that his writing is a dialogue with everything that has already been written. Writing, poetry or otherwise, is “a conversation with the dead.”

He gave an illustration: his earliest attempts at poetry were good, solid attempts. But his poetry wasn’t great until he consciously engaged the work of other poets, picking through style and theme to discern just what had made those earlier writers so great (or not). It isn’t enough just to dismiss the existing body of work and go one’s own way. For writing to be transcendent and lasting, it needs to have that consciousness.

The point of writing, according to Hirsch, is to transcend “the muck and mire” to make something last through language. But writing isn’t self-reliant. If it is to last, it has to build on the existing foundation.

Which is why I think reading is such an important thing for writers. And reading widely–not only in your genre, but across the spectrum, because in the end a lot of it is the same story. Knowing what’s already been said, and how it’s been said, and why it’s been said, is an important part of making sure your writing has something to add to the conversation.

Guess I need to go read some Edward Hirsch now…

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Once Upon a Time contest entry

Here’s my entry for the “Once Upon a Time” flash fiction contest being hosted by Yearning for Wonderland and SJI Holliday. The challenge was to write an “unexpected” fairy tale in 350 words or less. Hope you enjoy!

Column

The dragon and I regard each other.

His eyes are cold, unblinking. He wins the contest every time. He’s small, about as long as my arm from fingertips to elbow. But the size doesn’t really matter. I’ve heard stories about how quickly the beasts can move. In some stories it doesn’t take more than their breath to kill you. I’ve already used up my only weapon, the pail I’d been carrying. Mother had sent me for water sometime last century. My aim was pretty bad. The pail just bounced harmlessly about four feet up the trail from where the dragon is lying. The water that was in it is already gone in the white-hot sun. So now I face him unarmed. His mouth is open wide to show pointed teeth, and he’s hissing. I daren’t turn away. I stand stock-still. A trickle of sweat has started down between my shoulder-blades.

“You been standin there long enough you could stick up your arms and folks’d think you was a Joshua tree.”

The voice comes from behind me. I whip my head around. A man has come down to the stream from the opposite bank of the arroyo, leading a milk-white horse by the reins. A boy, really–he isn’t much more than my age. But he’s got spurs on his boots, a gun holstered on his hip.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says. He tips his weather-beaten hat to me. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“There’s a dragon,” I croak.

“A dragon?”

I point. He brings his horse across the stream towards me, follows my finger with his eyes. The beast watches, still hissing, coiling up now, fixing to strike. The boy unholsters his gun, spins it in his hand with ease, lets off one quick shot. The dragon rears back and drops in a puff of dust and lies still, just like that.

“No match for Ascalon,” the boy says with pride. He holsters the gun again and pats the handle. He smiles at me, sticks out a hand. “Name’s George,” he says.
Continue reading →

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Lucky number seven

Hemmie Martin was kind enough to tag me in the Lucky 7 meme a few days ago, and I’ve finally found the time to sit down and do it. I’ve also found, to my great chagrin, that pages 7 and 77 in both my completed manuscript and my WIP are exceptionally boring. Blast!

O well. For those of you unfamiliar with the meme, the rules are as follows:

  • Go to page 7 or 77 of your manuscript
  • Go to line 7
  • Post the next 7 lines/sentences on your blog (as they are–no cheating!)
  • Tag 7 other authors

First, then, I give you 7 sentences from page 7 of His Own Good Sword.

“I need to speak with him now.”

She stood back from him to look up into his face, realizing something belatedly.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He didn’t answer her. He left her standing there and went outside, wishing Rovero were not hovering behind him, too dry-mouthed nervous, all of a sudden, to say anything to him. The stable was a long, low, tile-roofed building of whitewashed limestone, with a walled yard of its own and living quarters at the far end, adjoining the guardsmen’s barracks, to house the stable-hands. The light was dim inside and it took a moment for Tyren’s eyes to adjust.

Now, on to the next lucky seven! Some of whom have probably already been tagged, since I’m late to the party. “O well!” I say again.

Meg McCrina
Sarah Wilson / @SarahandBooks
J.R. Wagner / @WordyWags
Lillie McFerrin / @lilliemcferrin
Sarah Elle Emm / @SarahElleEmm
Becca Campbell / @beccajcampbell
Kassie Bettis / @kassie_brianna

Thanks again to Hemmie for tagging me!

His Own Good Sword
Copyright © 2012 by Amanda McCrina
Excerpt appears courtesy of Winter Goose Publishing

A reassurance

Yes. I am, in fact, still alive.

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