Literary Justification: What Gives a Story Identity?
The Discussion:
If you were to bring up a list of your favourite examples of good storytelling, there has to be something about it which makes it unique. There is always something that gives a distinct feel or dignity to a piece. A lot of analysing in literature comes from wanting to delve into the secrets on how words can be woven into the character of a single piece of art.
What Gives a Story Identity?
How does a story gain character? How does a story separate itself in the mind as its own beast? When you yourself are writing, what concerns do you have for the personality of your works?
The Response:
Death and CoffeeDeath and Coffee
"Here's coffee..."
He sipped.
"- and cyanide."
CinderBIGFEET
"Bibbity! Bobbity...
- your foot's too big."
Attention: Mr. Hood
Robin Hood,
I'm poor. Oprah's not.
Mature Content
Manifesto of the tired novelist with a day jobI'm tired of poets
and their
pretentious sadness
and their
"only a 'sensitive' man has the
'inspiration' to create".
As if you need 'inspiration' to write
words upon a page
and as though
without some degree of actionless pathos
one cannot be <<poetic>>
enough or indeed
move others
with words.
It speaks rather of
lack of
character
rather than any great literary genius
or
<<talent>>.
What is <<talent>> ?
What is talent without the appliance of
hard work
and
a hearty demeanor?
StrawberriesIt rained yesterday.
It rained and it washed all the mud down our street.
I went in the garden, my shoes got all wet.
Darn summer showers that smell of soaked earth.
I went in the garden, I set down my fruit basket,
And started to dig.
Until I found strawberries, crushed by the foul phlegm of sand grains and
Dead leaves.
My hands still felt cold when I washed them with hot, steamy water
From under the tap. I closed it, and ran
Ran down the porous cement stairs that stung my bare feet,
To the beat of a popular tune our neighbor Jerry played,
To my friend's house.
My friend used to stick strawberries to the tips of her fingers and
Eat them off, licking her lips with vigor.
I knocked on the door twice and waited, strawberry basket in hand.
My hand wouldn't reach the doorbell those years,
Even standing on tiptoes.
When minutes passed and I heard nothing but the roar of an airplane's rotor,
I knew just where she would be.
Pushing my head between iron bars
CigarettesThe first cigarette went down smooth, like crème brûlée.
The second cigarette went down smoother, like sin.
Fool in the RainI heard that summer was just
around the open bend, cusped
by the sparkling tears of spring.
But, her hand, it had no ring,
so she gave way in a rush.
I guess that winter crushed
the weedy, spurious
hope we were on the brink,
but spring’s gonna come around here again.
I heard that summer came around rainless
I saw that autumn stole away the trust.
You know that winter always leaves her sting.
Ever freezing, whirring, blurring, slurring,
but spring’s gonna come around here again.
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Happy writing,
NAKTARRA
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