My aspirations to write have led to a whole lot of 'thinking' about writing and a complete absence of actual time spent with pen to paper. As I read novels to my class, I am constantly dissecting the structure and layout of the text in an effort to understand how the 'engine' of the story actually works. My favorite part of a book comes on the first page. What did the author do in order to hook me as a reader. What was on sale during this first page that makes me want to return to its pages over and over again?
Tonight I decided to spend 20 minutes trying to write an opening of a story that I might, as a reader, want to come back and continue to read. I honestly haven't thought about what might happen following this first page, so it is not necessarily a story in progress but is instead, an exercise for me to see how the writing flows. Where do I get stuck? What does my mind want to do in terms of vocabulary and structure? Where in the HELL do these thoughts come from? I'm trying to pay attention to a lot of things at the same time. Like any skill, writing takes practice. This is the first formal assignment that I gave myself and here is the result. My hope is that I can look back on this in a month, six months, or a year from now and find things that I would change because of the hours I will surely spend practicing and learning the trade.
Page 1 of an unknown and unwritten book...
When they uncovered the floor tiles, one by one, they discovered a vast mass of nothingness underneath, devoid of color or shine, depth or contrast, a complete absence of all things that are describable. A deep feeling of longing saturated their bodies, a strong magnetic pull. Involuntarily, their bodies took several steps forward until they reached that pivotal line where floor meets eternity and then the girls stepped off and began drifting down at a slow and graceful pace. They glided past a whole lot of emptiness and neither saw nor heard any signs of life as they descended further and further into what felt like it could be inside the earth. Sima reached out her hand to Roe in an effort to feel a bit grounded and also to touch something familiar..
“How far have we fallen, um, glided?” Roe asked.
“I can’t tell. Maybe three stories, maybe fifty. Where are we?” replied Sima.
“Are you scared? I mean, is this real? This can’t be real, right?”
Their hearts pounded louder and louder like the beat of rhythmic drums as they began to realize that, although they had no idea how or why, their lives may never be the same again.
“I think something must have happened at our tree. Did we do something? Are we dreaming? Those birds. They did something to us. I don’t know how or what they did but they did something,” Sima mumbled in a confused and soft whisper.
Silence crept over them as they continued to descend further and further into the nothingness that was their surrounding. Thoughts rushed through each of their minds and those, although inaudible to each other, were the only voices they heard.
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