Books would be too long, too tedious, too complex.
We wouldn’t see bits that matter standing proud from so many other bits …
We read front to back. Left to right, top to bottom.
Devouring, in sequence writer intended – not chronologically – because storytelling is like that. Every story. Every character (they’re all real – names changed to protect writer being beaten by those he/she writes about) includes many bits. And many bits are left for guessing.
Many bits don’t matter much, but remain essential to understanding characters.
Writers don’t tell whole stories.
We holds back many bits. Other bits. Bits not talked about at all. Nowhere in dialogue, not hidden between lines.
Tell bits. Tell other bits. Leave out bits. Connect bits.
Writers are real sometimes.
Bits of them …
written / published from Calgary, AB
morning walk: 13C/55F, hazy light cloud, negligible breeze. Gusta’s freshly washed and clipped coat shimmering with each step – she seems to be prancing (I’m assuming she can tell the difference which is probably a stretch for any dog brain) as if on parade, not wanting to get her paws dirty …
I am no longer a Keremeos ‘babe’ … I live in Vancouver, moved out in last November right after my sister’s passing. Got a job offer that seemed too good to be true. Winter, Spring and Summer have come and gone. I read your musings when I get time, some very insightful and some fretfully busy minded like Mark on speed. I think this was one of those, where I wondered if your mind ever stops to find peace – not needing to say or do anything, and what it would really be like to be inside your head?, BW, Vancouver, BC