The prologue to my novel - Tilted Forum Project Discussion Community

Lunchbox7 · 02-17-2004, 05:57 PM

Prologue

Bright incomprehensible light pierces my skull as I slowly peel back my eyelids. That light begins to take focus and I can distinguish between the different shades of dark and light. Those shades harden into the shapes of trees with golden sunshine filtering through the broken rooftop. Some unknown bird sings along without any notice for me. The image breeds innocence as if the world had just been born in all its purities.
As the sun rises each day so must I. The attempt is crippling as a sharp agony encompasses my brain. The hard shapes distort until the vertigo claims its victim once more. Time seemed irrelevant as I slipped in and out of consciousness.
The sun had dropped far when I finally gained enough vitality to stand. I was in a well-catered garden. Carefully manicured grass filled in the gaps between the towering palm trees which seemed to populate this terrain. A simple wooden table lay nearby. Atop it’s unadorned but perfectly crafted face lay a small mirror and two bowls. One filled with rice, the other filled with water, which radiated the scent of lemon. This felt oddly safe despite its unfamiliarity. A bruised hand picked up the bowl of rice. Hunger in all its glory seemed to strike at that moment as the rice disappeared in mere seconds. The water immediately followed. A sudden vigor seemed to flow through my body and clear my mind. As the mind fog cleared my situation took form. The reality dawned with such speed that panic surfaced with all the intensity of a dwarven battlerager. Question after question came unbidden to me. Who am I? What am I doing here? Am I safe? One word screamed above the roar of panic. “CENTRE”! At once the meaning became clear. I must centre myself to take control of my situation. The body took control when the body was too slow and I find myself in a headstand. I know this to be a form of meditation but the acquisition of the knowledge and skill is unfathomable.
A short time passes before the labored gasps become rhythmic. The mind slows to cope with this new burst of information or lack of. Once more I face the environment, which I have been carefully placed as I step out of the meditation. I look at my body, as a noble would appraise a new garment. A body that seems used to work is mine. My bronzed body is clad only in shorts of fine but plain silk. A slight frame is covered in muscle toned from years of hard work. The muscle lacks bulk yet is they were brimming with vitiating power. An assortment of bruises are dispatched over my frame. With surprise very little pain flows from them. I held the small mirror up before my face. A weathered face stared back at me. He had a shaven head except for a foot long plat at the back of his skull. A swollen cheek and a jagged cut down one side of his face. Most intense though were the ice blue eyes that seemed out of place in that dark complexion. Eyes that held passion and intelligence that seemed to pierce to the very soul. I instinctively knew he was a loyal friend and a ruthless enemy.
The constant chatter of birds cease. The mirror plummets to the ground as I spin into a defensive posture.
A small monk chuckles with security. He is of similar complexion to me but many years my senior. He is slightly shorter and dressed in loose clothes of white tied with an orange sash. “You needn’t fear an old man” the gentle voice of the intriguing monk states. “Who are you?” I find myself stammering in a husky voice. “Sit” came the reply. “Who am I?” again came the husky unfamiliar voice. “SIT” the monk said with such authority that I was on the ground before recognition of the command was upon me. A sigh escaped the old mans lips. “We have much to discuss”. I didn’t doubt it.

mr sticky · 02-20-2004, 11:20 AM

Box, this prologue has quite a bit of meter, I'm curious if that was intentional or if your prose just flows that way. It gives it a very poetic slant.

Very keen imagary...I'd like to see this with all that cool spacing and italics etc. that those book guys do. I bet it would be even more dynamic.

Lunchbox7 · 02-21-2004, 02:35 PM

Im not sure what you mean by meter? Obviously it was unintentional. Hahaha. What did you mean by cool spacing and italics etc? I would like any advice you wished to dispence.Thanks.

mr sticky · 02-22-2004, 08:23 AM

The meter that I was refering to was the general rythym that your piece, esp the beginning, has. If you read it aloud it has a very lyrical rythym. Meter is a rythym of a piece, such as the prevalence if iambic pentameter in Shakespeare's works. It's not a bad thing, but very poetic. Your writing has very poetic imagary and I thought that this may have been intentional.

The spacing and italics stuff I was refering to was the breakup of the timing of a piece of writing. It's much like when you group together ideas that form a paragraph. It's also used as a timing and impact device. Your character is obviously revealing himself slowly, as if he is first being revealed to himself i.e. regaining memory. The timing of this would be broken up by spacing. Usually these instances of inner dialogue are done with italics. The simple declarative prose is in normal type. The suprising entrance of the master would be separated by the change perhaps as a double space or a return from all italics to normal type. That would be the end of personal reflection and a step to a new level of interaction with another being.

An editor will help you with stuff like this, but it's important to consider the flow of a page when writing, something that usually occurs in successive drafts. It's important at first to bleed out the story and then in the rewrites to polish it and give it your voice and flow.

As a beginning writer, I can tell you that my first draft of anything tends to read like a dry museum piece, damn near completely devoid of warmth and light. I usually end up changing at least seventy percent of it to give it some resemblence of humanity. Sometimes it's minor sentance structure, others it's deleting my tendency to be verbose.

Write on dude! We'll both get something hammered out eventually!

Lunchbox7 · 02-23-2004, 05:42 PM

Cool. Thanks Mate. I'll take that on board. I would like to read an exerpt of your writing if you feel comfortable sharing it with me? Preferably one which exhibits the very same techniques you are advising me on.

mr sticky · 02-24-2004, 10:12 AM

I've got a few drafts going...I'll post something when I have something polished.

Thanks for your interest...

And Box..write, write, WRITE!

02-17-2004, 05:57 PM	#1 (permalink)
Lunchbox7 Addict	The prologue to my novel Prologue Bright incomprehensible light pierces my skull as I slowly peel back my eyelids. That light begins to take focus and I can distinguish between the different shades of dark and light. Those shades harden into the shapes of trees with golden sunshine filtering through the broken rooftop. Some unknown bird sings along without any notice for me. The image breeds innocence as if the world had just been born in all its purities. As the sun rises each day so must I. The attempt is crippling as a sharp agony encompasses my brain. The hard shapes distort until the vertigo claims its victim once more. Time seemed irrelevant as I slipped in and out of consciousness. The sun had dropped far when I finally gained enough vitality to stand. I was in a well-catered garden. Carefully manicured grass filled in the gaps between the towering palm trees which seemed to populate this terrain. A simple wooden table lay nearby. Atop it’s unadorned but perfectly crafted face lay a small mirror and two bowls. One filled with rice, the other filled with water, which radiated the scent of lemon. This felt oddly safe despite its unfamiliarity. A bruised hand picked up the bowl of rice. Hunger in all its glory seemed to strike at that moment as the rice disappeared in mere seconds. The water immediately followed. A sudden vigor seemed to flow through my body and clear my mind. As the mind fog cleared my situation took form. The reality dawned with such speed that panic surfaced with all the intensity of a dwarven battlerager. Question after question came unbidden to me. Who am I? What am I doing here? Am I safe? One word screamed above the roar of panic. “CENTRE”! At once the meaning became clear. I must centre myself to take control of my situation. The body took control when the body was too slow and I find myself in a headstand. I know this to be a form of meditation but the acquisition of the knowledge and skill is unfathomable. A short time passes before the labored gasps become rhythmic. The mind slows to cope with this new burst of information or lack of. Once more I face the environment, which I have been carefully placed as I step out of the meditation. I look at my body, as a noble would appraise a new garment. A body that seems used to work is mine. My bronzed body is clad only in shorts of fine but plain silk. A slight frame is covered in muscle toned from years of hard work. The muscle lacks bulk yet is they were brimming with vitiating power. An assortment of bruises are dispatched over my frame. With surprise very little pain flows from them. I held the small mirror up before my face. A weathered face stared back at me. He had a shaven head except for a foot long plat at the back of his skull. A swollen cheek and a jagged cut down one side of his face. Most intense though were the ice blue eyes that seemed out of place in that dark complexion. Eyes that held passion and intelligence that seemed to pierce to the very soul. I instinctively knew he was a loyal friend and a ruthless enemy. The constant chatter of birds cease. The mirror plummets to the ground as I spin into a defensive posture. A small monk chuckles with security. He is of similar complexion to me but many years my senior. He is slightly shorter and dressed in loose clothes of white tied with an orange sash. “You needn’t fear an old man” the gentle voice of the intriguing monk states. “Who are you?” I find myself stammering in a husky voice. “Sit” came the reply. “Who am I?” again came the husky unfamiliar voice. “SIT” the monk said with such authority that I was on the ground before recognition of the command was upon me. A sigh escaped the old mans lips. “We have much to discuss”. I didn’t doubt it.

02-20-2004, 11:20 AM	#2 (permalink)
mr sticky Psycho Location: NC	Box, this prologue has quite a bit of meter, I'm curious if that was intentional or if your prose just flows that way. It gives it a very poetic slant. Very keen imagary...I'd like to see this with all that cool spacing and italics etc. that those book guys do. I bet it would be even more dynamic. __________________ The sad thing is... as you get older you come to realize that you don't so much pilot your life, as you just try to hold on, in a screaming, defiant ball of white-knuckle anxious fury

02-22-2004, 08:23 AM	#4 (permalink)
mr sticky Psycho Location: NC	The meter that I was refering to was the general rythym that your piece, esp the beginning, has. If you read it aloud it has a very lyrical rythym. Meter is a rythym of a piece, such as the prevalence if iambic pentameter in Shakespeare's works. It's not a bad thing, but very poetic. Your writing has very poetic imagary and I thought that this may have been intentional. The spacing and italics stuff I was refering to was the breakup of the timing of a piece of writing. It's much like when you group together ideas that form a paragraph. It's also used as a timing and impact device. Your character is obviously revealing himself slowly, as if he is first being revealed to himself i.e. regaining memory. The timing of this would be broken up by spacing. Usually these instances of inner dialogue are done with italics. The simple declarative prose is in normal type. The suprising entrance of the master would be separated by the change perhaps as a double space or a return from all italics to normal type. That would be the end of personal reflection and a step to a new level of interaction with another being. An editor will help you with stuff like this, but it's important to consider the flow of a page when writing, something that usually occurs in successive drafts. It's important at first to bleed out the story and then in the rewrites to polish it and give it your voice and flow. As a beginning writer, I can tell you that my first draft of anything tends to read like a dry museum piece, damn near completely devoid of warmth and light. I usually end up changing at least seventy percent of it to give it some resemblence of humanity. Sometimes it's minor sentance structure, others it's deleting my tendency to be verbose. Write on dude! We'll both get something hammered out eventually! __________________ The sad thing is... as you get older you come to realize that you don't so much pilot your life, as you just try to hold on, in a screaming, defiant ball of white-knuckle anxious fury

02-24-2004, 10:12 AM	#6 (permalink)
mr sticky Psycho Location: NC	I've got a few drafts going...I'll post something when I have something polished. Thanks for your interest... And Box..write, write, WRITE! __________________ The sad thing is... as you get older you come to realize that you don't so much pilot your life, as you just try to hold on, in a screaming, defiant ball of white-knuckle anxious fury

02-21-2004, 02:35 PM	#3 (permalink)
Lunchbox7 Addict	Im not sure what you mean by meter? Obviously it was unintentional. Hahaha. What did you mean by cool spacing and italics etc? I would like any advice you wished to dispence.Thanks.

02-23-2004, 05:42 PM	#5 (permalink)
Lunchbox7 Addict	Cool. Thanks Mate. I'll take that on board. I would like to read an exerpt of your writing if you feel comfortable sharing it with me? Preferably one which exhibits the very same techniques you are advising me on.