So I’ve decided to revive an old habit: scrap writing.
Basically, I write up random settings/characters/ideas just for practice’s sake. Sometimes I keep rolling with it, but mostly I leave the scraps behind. Getting caught up with a short story just because it’s nearly done and then stalling for days; usually just leads to a broken down engine that falters for months.
Fred Gallagher probably put it best: Creativity is a muscle that requires regular exercise, lest it suffer atrophy.
I’ll be throwing scraps around on the blog, if only to keep updating it and maybe find and excuse just to rabble; I like rabbling, I like putting myself on here because I intended this to be a “blog of me” and not just my writing stuff.
Often my scraps will focus on descriptions: partly because I love flinging words at pictures; partly because I find it easier to just ignore descriptions throughout a complete story.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Most descriptions are unnecessary and/or exceed reasonable length; at least in my experience. Eventually I’m going to get into “Writing Technique” posts where I talk about my writing design choices, and I choose my words deliberately when making description.
I’m not always certain of the result, which is why I prefer to scrap write those things I struggle the most with: settings, people, objects/animals, and above all else: describing the person whose perspective I’m following, without the description feeling “plugged” and “disruptive”.
Vanessa drifted through Kalina after the night and snow sublimated her messy world into impure absolutions. The pebbled schematic of rust and dust blanched white beneath her booted step; sky-scraping glasses once blue with the moon blacked out or shimmered with human spirit. Even concrete lost its shadows up high where the clouds had fallen low enough to obscure shape and form.
Bars and Clubs disrupted nature’s monochrome with their invitations: extending warm glows and neon invitations to Vanessa; offering her renewed life and company; but she settled for the first bench on the road; sweeping it of snow with her gloves and settling into the seat of her apricot coat. She dangled cashmere legs and a lofty, floaty shin skirt to the airs; muffled her face in black and navy hues; and closed her violet eyes to the occasional boy admiring the black hairs sleeking down to her brow, her shoulder, her back.
She should call it a night; go home; but isolation wore her down. She did not want to crawl into an empty bed on digested leftovers and no conversations to mull; and she was content to simply exist within public space till this urge dissipated or was satisfied.
I tend to worry about my coherency when it comes to descriptions.
Do my words confuse you?
Does Vanessa’s description feel “plugged”?
Feel free to comment. I’m always open to critique: positive, negative, and whatever else.
Oh, and if you like a piece of scrap writing and would like me to evolve it into something longer; let me know and I’ll see if anything comes to mind.