Soul_on_Fire
07-12-2004, 02:49 AM
I've just started writing this character, I'm not sure if I'll carry on giving him life as I'm really just trying to get writing again after a long break.Any opinions/ideas?
.......
He lived like a caged animal in a place of creative discordance where hundreds of papers spanned across the floor from wall to wall. The music of Bach, disconnected and splattered about like litter paper. Old plates of spaghetti slithered onto this great mass of vandalised culture: snaking their way through the great artistic din of dark paintings and the trappings of his rather well loved violin. He had no bed per say, it was merely a mattress shoved against one wall. The bed space was not even sacred from mess and bike parts, climbing equipment and Bob Dylan albums could be easily collided with if you turned on the wrong side during the night. You always got the impression that this space was a painfully single one, as you could hardly pick apart a simple path across it without running into the kinds of things single young men accumulate. A box of tissues was always available and the odd intellectual romance could be found open in the first few opening pages. Without fail.
His reasoning was that he was one man and his violin. He was no good with women and his relationship was with the drug addled nature of his own mind. He cleaned and tuned the violin like a nervous habit, canoodling it in his arms like a great wooden doll as if to fill the gap in a rather mundane existence. An existence where the education system was far away and Mother was the great goddess of the stupid grey jumpers that lined the one door wardrobe and the rest of the obscured floor.
.......
He lived like a caged animal in a place of creative discordance where hundreds of papers spanned across the floor from wall to wall. The music of Bach, disconnected and splattered about like litter paper. Old plates of spaghetti slithered onto this great mass of vandalised culture: snaking their way through the great artistic din of dark paintings and the trappings of his rather well loved violin. He had no bed per say, it was merely a mattress shoved against one wall. The bed space was not even sacred from mess and bike parts, climbing equipment and Bob Dylan albums could be easily collided with if you turned on the wrong side during the night. You always got the impression that this space was a painfully single one, as you could hardly pick apart a simple path across it without running into the kinds of things single young men accumulate. A box of tissues was always available and the odd intellectual romance could be found open in the first few opening pages. Without fail.
His reasoning was that he was one man and his violin. He was no good with women and his relationship was with the drug addled nature of his own mind. He cleaned and tuned the violin like a nervous habit, canoodling it in his arms like a great wooden doll as if to fill the gap in a rather mundane existence. An existence where the education system was far away and Mother was the great goddess of the stupid grey jumpers that lined the one door wardrobe and the rest of the obscured floor.