The Depth Awaits

There was a strange fairy light on his body, my sister’s body. There is no connection between us. There is no competition for siblings. And the cold shadows of autumn are always in my mind. Leave all ready to die and their diverse origins, aiming for a cool view of the wilderness that feels like a frozen North American lake. I remember despair and hope in the eyes of young girls who thought they were wearing fashionable clothes. I remember the range of peace, the gentle flutter of the eyes of old women, now weak limbs, who long for the warm sea when they used to swim as young girls. I remember the love song in silence when I felt I could no longer escape from it. How does he move in the world of loveliness now? I am an ice woman, who froze at the core, shattered. See the clown description in the circus. I am one of them now and forever.

There is a sane life, a crazy life, reality, past remorse, mistakes made, telephone calls, apologies, laughter, past energy in a story and I am left wondering how some people find love in this world. Love the same old-fashioned with rain, apron in the kitchen between pots and pans, dishes on the table on Sundays, father sitting on his throne. Childhood is lost to me, dead to me mature, the past is past but still has such sweetness, it dissolves. And a few nights back, horrible, familiar, all the horrible stories with clarity that I knew were not tricks of my imagination playing tricks on me. I want it to erase all the purposes of my sin anywhere that says, ‘Remember me. No matter who you love, for whom you fall in love, who and what you want or drink (alcohol), watch the men dissolve. They will not return. “And when bad things get too close for comfort, I take to my bed after drawing a curtain, leaving the window open for cool air, closing the bedroom door and I will lie on the bed until I can feel a tinge of sadness begin in me, as if they have a calm, harmonious society and how beautiful and sad their symphony is for me.

These are breathing lessons, lessons about suffering, about life, about life. Is that brutality here? It is nothing but memories, disturbances, and being a dumb daughter. A touch of a belt buckle, a searing wet cloth under a tap of cold water, a mummy, a mummy red hand, mummy gardening hands in the cold, loud laughter, harsh words, running to my father, bare feet. He shouted at the mummy. I saw him for the first time now and I saw that he was tired. His hands drooped limply by his side now. He said nothing. My skin feels like it’s burning everywhere. My father caught fire. My father is crying. I am pink all over, then red. My skin feels raw, itchy. It feels like I’m harvesting Joyce Carol Oates’s meat. He said nothing. He just turned and walked away. What am I doing? What am I doing? Where is the country’s key? How strange is the marriage of the mind to harvest? Mind means education, psychology, something must be taught and something must be understood. Harvesting means bringing closure in a season. This is what family means. To eat in front of the television, scream and scream and scream until you can’t scream anymore. Nothing will come to you, comfort you.

So I grew up, moved, away from the world of children and the play of children and teenagers and stopped believing that he lived a secret life. Maybe the mummy has a secret lover. She is beautiful in that way, easily bored in that way, does not find the same thing that according to father is relevant and beautiful. They come from two different worlds. They come from two different cultures. He came from money and he didn’t. He came from Johannesburg and knew a certain way of life from there. My mother came in carrying a Pandora’s Box, suitcases full of clothes from there when she arrived as a newlywed. My father came from Everywhere in Port Elizabeth. South End, Walmer, Fairview, North End, Korsten, fishing village named Port Elizabeth, Location Gubb, New Brighton, Zwide, Kwazakhele, Nelson Mandela Bay. Over the years these names have remained in my memory when I studied his research that was eager to save it rather than sending it to the archives at the University of the Western Cape (my father, a political activist who learned how to send messages using invisible ink). ), read his diary from his experiences in London and Europe (I rediscovered him, his suicide, and at this moment I was fascinated by his depression, watching the slides of the palace he visited, but I could never imagine myself there. It was enough for me to see Versailles as a small photo facing the light. He witnessed many great things, amazing things that were extraordinary. An extraordinary father at that time, a thinker, intellectual, teacher, role model for me who brought me back to poetry.

Because there was a fire in my head like the study of Robert Muirhead’s poem, I began writing. Because winter flashes were in my head like chains of bitterness in the memory of veteran photographers, but there was also something unresolved in me, something was late. Look for opportunities that are said by the gold guard band around the sun and that is my mission. I began to imagine the shackles of other people’s pain, their chains, their prison walls sticking around them, the spirit of fear, hurt and internal rejection, ignorance, and spiritual neglect, poverty and for some reason I felt more gravity.

I am bored with people who ask me to smile, you will be prettier if you do it.

Do I have courage, mute child in the photo? I have suffered but what is also suffering compared to others. I have a mental change but what do others have? What are their coping mechanisms? The universe gives me freely. I have protection if I want it. I have a shelter if I want it. Hope is there. In his arrival there is always freedom. There is always a revolution in the mind of the poet and the essence in poetry that comes from the mouth, the voice, the direct thought of such a revolution.

I have met other people. He told me everything. He is not afraid to tell me anything. And the veil slowly raised my smile and became like a scar. My wound is like the stigmata. And I began to see and hear everything again. Hope floats. There are angels everywhere, but I still feel incomplete like a kind of showing off feeling boring to live a normal life like the people next door who aren’t shy to get drunk in front of their children. I am ashamed of my loneliness, despair, and gloomy outlook on life. I know where you have been in a secret life. Secret life. Do insects also have a secret life and what have their best intentions lived for years in secret? Therein lies their survival. When my sister came home, she and my mother sat together as if it was the most normal thing in the world and they drank. They drink cocktails. The pink syrup liquid that seems to sparkle, sparkling wine, Peach schnapps juice, vodka, and orange juice cools like ice that goes down their throats. I prefer my secret life.

As an adult, my mother, mummy is no longer my morning star and my sister is still a thief of my dreams. They have become my life, keeping car keys and milk bottles solid. I have to find my own project. According to God’s plan, he wants us, I to act accordingly, fairly, with integrity, humility. He wants us to go to the world knowing that He is always on our side now and forever more.

We are all born with philosophy, it doesn’t have to be like Plan B so, and we want to bring meaning to our own lives. I found a book that was once called Norah Secret Life and when I read it I found many things about this woman whose life I did not call attractive or romantic. He has a ‘romantic’ love relationship but everything has been destroyed from the start. He is important or not, but his life seems to be something symbolic as if I had to use opportunism for it later on.

Unfortunately he is not the type to get married but he has a lot of spiritual knowledge unlike other women of his generation and sometimes in his love affairs he will think like a man when he comes to ‘transactions’. In a material world dominated by men, he knew he could never win. So he became like the face of children smiling amidst poverty. When he wants to run away, he does what all men do, he educates himself, he paints, and he receives guests, he writes unexpected poems that never feel sorry for themselves but stories that stand in the way. And in one way, maybe some of the ways he became a keeper of so many women who lived in isolation from people who did not accept them because they chose to live an unconventional life.

In the end, his love affair, Norah, seemed to try to deal with his new life as well as possible as the stars in the night sky when the earth smelled clean, fresh, and new like vanilla. He is smart. The spirit feels bright. It feels too bright. The conversation can be enlightening and smart. He wants to be entertained. He wants to be filled with joie de vivre. He also wants to be pursued. Isn’t there a woman who wants to be pursued? Extraordinary men when they chase. They have a great perspective. They entertain you with stories. The world is awesome when they are in it with you on their arms and you go places. It doesn’t matter that you are part of his secret life. They are still very impressive. They make you feel desirable, beautiful, and the sadness you have felt or possessed so strongly in your life over other things no longer wins. You are no longer flying solo singing.

This is 2013, almost two o’clock in the morning, December and other Christmas have come and gone and my brother will become a father. I can’t taunt him anymore. And in the beautiful compass of unlimited internal struggle between suicide, wanting to fly, wanting to have that family, plans that come together, memories, thoughts about Plath, Hughes, Head of Bessie, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell I am still here. I live with a spirit that is awakened, with everything I have put on my part, I realize that I cannot return. I have to go forward, move forward because my hostess and life is a mission. I don’t really see how my life can change after this, after everything I’ve been through. Two birds. Plath and Sexton. Once upon a time they were also two birds on the mission. Joy filled my lungs, as well as surges for the realization of humanity. Our survival. Our instinct The name of the little one is Ethan. Ethan’s ambition. We are all actors who act a little there and little here. My brother held this bright shining object in his hand. Something that will be educated, implanted with its values, nurturing skills and I feel as if I am destroyed by primitive primitive animalistic forces. And I know that I will forget the past Mr. Mackenzie (plural) Jean Rhys. After all, I have never had any ambition in me. They all come with world territory. There he is. Undocumented love affair really exists in my head, however brilliant the man is and however brave his movements are and I dare to take him.

I know something different now. I was more challenging like Norah in her secret life because she finally found a way out. No one wants the end of the book or film to be broken for them. Norah has found a way out and she is happy. As happy as possible. Women deserve to be happy. Men are totally different. The kid who lost everything. They always look for. I think they never grow up.

The Depth of Setting

Weak Settings

When I became an instructor for writing schools (through correspondence) a few years ago, I brought many students and therefore read many manuscripts. I stayed with that position for more than nine years. Often, I find memorable characters with some delivery lessons, and sometimes I even find interesting plots. But many plots are very lacking in the third member of the basic series: arrangement.

The simple definition of settings is the background of your character to appear. The feeling of a place is very important for a novel. A successful novelist plays every aspect of the environment. The lack of a visual scene will leave your character and its actions and interactions suspended in an empty type of limbo.

Not Decoration

When talking about settings, I’m not referring to the flat description paragraph. Rather, this background must be more than just a show painted on a pane of scenery such as a stage play. Settings or background must be interwoven with your character and what they do at a certain time.

If you previously considered the arrangement just a “decoration” for your story, I challenge you to think again. I will challenge you to think of story settings like characters. This will require you to explore the depth of the place.

Awaken Reader Sensation

As you dive into the depths, create a way to arouse all the feelings of the reader in the description. What sounds and smells are common? What is the weather like? How do people talk? What foods do they like? If your novel is arranged in a rather strict setting, can you switch to using a flashback to another place and time?

Let this background come alive through your character’s thoughts, dialogue and actions. No matter how beautiful you are in describing a room, one season, one day or whatever, your readers tend to skip it to pick up the narrative thread. Let the reader go through the settings through the character’s experiences and reactions.

Consider Your Own Root

Think about how your own roots (where you grow up) color and influence who you are. Now apply it to your character. How do settings affect character and shape and shape his personality? Personally, I know a little about mountains, or beaches. (Sighs) I have spent most of my life in a landlocked Midwest. That is me.

In my novel Good-Bye Beedee (David C. Cook’s Quick Fox line), the main character Marcia has lived for thirteen years at the farm of his grandparents in Oklahoma. He rode most of those years. But then his father remarried (his mother had died many years before) and transferred him and his younger brother, Chuckie, to Kansas City. Their first home was an apartment that was too small.

Rural Oklahoma that is wide, wide open, dusty, IS Marcia. There he is. He lives and breathes horses. And horses and farms go together. Like a magnet, he was attracted to a hostel he placed in Kansas City. Can you imagine what the smell of the cage will do for young Marcia? Skin, straw, feed, horse meat, even manure. He loves everything. This is all part of the background – a deep background for the novel.

As Character Settings

My point here is that the arrangement is intrinsically intertwined in character. Nothing is painted. Or added to a drop of color. It builds the story and takes it. This setting is as real as character.

Do you have to know your settings directly to write about it? The answer is no, you don’t. Of course, the more research you can do, the more complete you write about it. Visit if possible. Stay for a while if possible. Read as much as possible to give you a clear background. Talk to the people who live there. Better yet, talk to people who have lived there for a long time.

Spark; Don’t Shovel

Even though you can never have too much factual information about your settings, you can indeed put too much into your story at once. Be careful avoiding shovels full of information just to impress the reader. Believe me, it will be skipped. (Or the book is placed not to be taken again.)

Did I say there would never be a paragraph that only painted pictures or set the stage? No, not at all. Make sure it’s an exception and not a rule in all novels. The key is to keep stirring up information, here a little, there’s a little.

Show, Don’t Say

Pull your readers directly to the scene by allowing the reader to “experience” the place rather than constantly telling it.

Take your favorite novel, written by your favorite writer and notice where the setting has been intertwined by dialogue, or the inner mind of the character, or directly through actions and character interactions. You will learn a lot from such exercises.