The only sensation in her was of absorption. The heat; the hard, sure heat under her. The leather of her new red shoes, leather tanned soft as fruit skin, holding her foot, wrapped all the way around it, to her ankle, where it was loose and gentle. The sound of the grasses, whispering. Soft as voices, safer than words, asking nothing of her but to hear them.
Soft as fruit skin? Where I came up with that, I have no idea; still I can feel it.
I hated my own red leather shoes. Is it that, that has me writing about a queer little girl, loving nothing more ... ?
4 comments:
I don't know what you made you write comparing it to soft fruit skin, but I was absolutely captivated. Beautiful prose...
It's a gift to open our words from way back, and re-read only to find not all of it is "shitty."
Donna, thank you so much! It means so much from you.
The way I got there is lost to me, but at a random guess about the way I think - maybe I was eating a peach or something when I wrote that. It's too specific, the fruit had to lead me backward to what I was writing, but the phrase did hit me. Or ... maybe I just touched a piece of soft chamois leather and it made me think of it.
The strange frission, the mystification like this is for me a great part of the magic of creativity. Does it sound weird if I say it feels powerful?
No, not at all. Actually it wasn't just that phrase, it's the entire thing that struck me as beautiful writing. I was intrigued by the picture and the snippet you offered. I'm always looking for fresh ways to describe a scene, emotion, or any of the zillion things in a story environment, and one of the ways I've found works for me without fail is to keep a couple of books beside me. If I get stuck I pick one of them up and read a few passages, and voila! I go back to my own writing and something unlocks - for a little while. I wish I could eat a peach (or WHATEVER) and come away with that.
Thank you so much, Donna.
We're privileged, aren't we? To touch power like that.
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