The title of my work is no longer called The Runaway Courtesan (TRC). Why? Thematically the title TRC no longer relates to my story, unfortunately. BUT I’m going to continue to refer to this manuscript as such. Mainly for the sake of convenience: everyone knows the story as TRC.
I won’t be revealing the NEW TITLE though as it’s still tentative. I’ll share it when I’m closer to querying, which will be several months from now *Sigh*
Anyway, here is a passage from the rough rewrite of TRC. I wrote this while listening to:
Game of Thrones Season 2 – Winterfell (a series I have yet to watch)
The carriage rumbles out of town. Everything is pitch black save for the carriage lanterns, its light swinging in and out the window, allowing me to catch glimpses of Mr. Creswell. A crescent of his face. The lapel of his jacket. His leather gloves. Then he disappears again into the shadows.
“You are silent, Miss Hollingworth,” he says. “I’d imagine that you would have many more questions to ask.”
There is nothing I can say to him, that he might understand. Shall I tell him that his good news chills me to the marrow? He will surely think me depraved. No one in their right mind would wish to remain at the brothel. Yet I wish it. I wish to remain among the fallen. Among them, I forget that who I am and what I’ve done and what I’ve seen is abominable. To return to respectable society, I fear, will mean to become the black stain against the sea of white.
“I—” My voice breaks. I close my mouth and swallow. “I’ve got so many of ‘em I don’t know where to begin.”
“Perhaps you would like to know where we are heading?”
“I reckon we’re traveling to Kent. To my parents.” I wait for his approval, which does not come. “You are taking me to them, are you not?”
“My condolence,” he says quietly. “Your parents are deceased.”
I must have heard wrong. “Begging your pardon?”
“Your parents, Miss Hollingworth, have passed away.”
I sit immobile for the longest moment, my head lost in a thicket of fog. Dead? I’m not certain of what to feel. There is something in death that my mind cannot grasp. “Gone – the both of ‘em…” With too much calm, I ask, “How did they pass away?”
“A carriage accident. A few days after your disappearance.”
I clutch my hands together; they are trembling. Yet I feel numb inside. “But you said you were distantly related to my parents…” Mother is dead. Father is dead. I am bewildered. “What am I to you, sir, that you’ve taken an interest in me? Why’d you come for me?”
I LOVE writing in first-person narrative, BUT (maybe because I’m a beginner to this narrative style) one thing I do find very frustrating is its limited scope. There’s something so EPIC about writing in third-person narrative (I’m thinking, Pillars of the Earth). I love reading and writing about the many different ways in which characters think and perceive life.
I guess, with first-person, one could reveal the multi-dimensional aspect of humanity through conversations and actions…(and what else?). But outward appearance/performance only says so much about what an individual is TRULY thinking. So, like I said, first-person narrative is frustrating at times due to its limited scope. It makes me feel claustrophobic occasionally. I’m trying to figure out ways to transcend this limitation though…
Current writing music:
Fever Ray – Keep the Streets Empty for Me
Snow Patrol – What if the Storm Ends