Perhaps the most challenging of transitions from poetry to prose was the lengthier narratives needed to portray thoughts in an insightful, but still inviting way. The goal of which is not to spoon-feed the reader, but still convey enough detail to capture a character or moment. Where poetry is descriptive, it is also incredibly fleeting. A story, however, lingers. It sweeps the room a few times, checks under the bed, and pauses on little features worth noting. It’s labor.
I thought I was going to give up on my novel nearly as soon as I started it. My creative instincts for flowing free-verse or drum-pounding songs slammed into prose like a brick wall. The crash-test dummy of my vocabulary was sent straight through the wind shield, and my imaginative engine caught fire by the fifth paragraph. To my friends and peers, I have described writing my story like I would a fitness journey. Except, instead of weights and miles, I am measuring my agonizing steps in paragraphs. My chapters are victories. Sometimes I sit back out of breath because I forget to breathe. My personal trainer (my wife) tells me to drink more water. Like I said, it’s exercise.
I thought I would focus this post on my writing, and to give some context to what I am referring to. I've written a little character study exercise I'm calling, “Digging in the Hedgerows.” It’s an effort to take some of the ancillary characters from my novel and paint their characters with a short bit of prose. Just a paragraph or two to bring some color. One of the first characters I introduce is Father Petre, a monk in the Filtai faith. As an ancillary character to my protagonist, he really doesn’t get a backstory. So, I thought I would keep the exercises rolling and build a bit more depth through a brief scene.
Let me know how I did. And any thoughts you have are greatly appreciated!
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Father Petre opened his eyes to the cracked, gray logs that made up the ceiling of his cell. The sun had yet to rise, but the warm breeze of the summer twilight passed freely through the open window. A life of monasticism gave little wealth, but to wake warmly was richness. It was one he knew well. Long ago, when he just a boy then, he lived in the north. Far north. So far north that depths of Iovi’s Fault had tumbled just beyond his father’s rear paddock. Back in the furthest field where they had exercised the horses before auction. But the north was filled with pain. Pain that had ripped its own daunting canyons through his life. Ledges he did his utmost to avoid. He felt the rough weave of his meager blanket as he gripped it. The pain of the past dulled to the creaking scrape of the arthritis in his hands. His life was warm. Comfortable, and simple. Despite the nagging criticisms of his own self-perfectionism, he had done his best to appreciate that warmth around him. Appreciating what it was he could not control.
He focused his breath – in and out, in and out. He tasted the pine trees in the air, and the dust around him. He had tasted that air for fifty years. He had woken before dawn for fifty years. Fifty years of prayer, meditation, and tutelage. The orphans he had mentored had come and gone aplenty. At first, he had mourned those he had sent to the trials. Only two had returned. Others had perished in labor. One plunged from the heights of the Chatter Lines. As hardened as he was, Father Petre could not deny that he had loved them. To each he was “Keeper.” In his heart he had wanted the best for each of them. And that was where he had ultimately kept them. A hallway of portraits in the walls of his heart. He swallowed back another memory and sat up from his bed. The darkness was familiar. The smell was familiar. The blanket was familiar. Routine was the crux of his faith, and yet Father Petre reveled in the unfamiliarity of the youth he was charged with. He took care of them like pups – raised and trained with pride.
As his feet found the stone of the floor and his arms stretched to their heights above his balding head, he recited his oath beneath his breath. Focus on the seconds. Rejoice in the minutes. And thrive in the hours. Meridian was a vast land, with many battles and many heroes, but Father Petre had left that behind in servitude to the god of time. Time was fleeting. Struggle was not. As his own Keeper had taught him when he was young - struggle was endless, given, but one’s time had an end. Filtai was not a gentle god. Time was a blessing and a cudgel. Petre grabbed his cane and stepped toward his dutifully hung robes. It was a fresh set – but the beige linen still looked worn. The hitch in his hip caught painfully, and he paused to let the ache simmer. Focus on the seconds. Rejoice in the minutes.
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