Hello all,
I typically frequent the Landscape Design, Japanese Gardens or occasionally Perennials, Bees, Soil or Orchards forums, but recent comments have led me to visit here.
While I have a fair command of language, my formal education is not broad. I have long enjoyed writing, have published a few articles in magazines, (mostly financial topics), but do not consider myself accomplished by any measure. Still, I have a yearn to try my hand at punching out a couple of books.
Im not at all clear as to this business of writing style. I understand that differentiations exist, but not what it all means. Does oneÂs pen style dictate the range of topics logically approached? Does it severely narrow the audience? Can a more technical writer be trained to tone down verbiage?
I enjoy the interplay of multiple and/or hidden meanings and have always written from the cuffÂedited a bit here and there for order or meaning, but whatever Âstyle has evolved has generally been after the fact, not by design. Most early efforts were dry and insufferably pedantic, but as I play with different topics, more recent product, while pithy, has lightened up a bit.
That said, I really have no clue, aside from occasional compliments, if any of my work has potential and humbly hereby request feedback, critique and suggestions to improveÂand welcome books, websites, etc., favorable offerings or scathing comments you would like to levelÂ
Sabi
By way of example, following is a recent bit of off-the-cuff fiction inspired by the true story of an exploded whale. While not laudable content, and admitedly intentionlly affected, I submit it to illustrate style.
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The old hermit gardener rested his weary bones by a rustic hovel in the wood by the bay, tired after gathering twigs and neatly clipping them to length. It mattered not that they would all soon be consumed in flames to heat his tea water...he admired the way they were carefully aligned in neat bundles, musing over the deeper meaning of order in nature.
Suddenly, a loud boom interrupted his tender reverie, followed by a crimson fetid shower, the nature of which he could not fathom. In a blink of an eye his rough hut and all that he had built was forever altered. He looked about aghast at the unexpected dramatic changes. The essential order was still there, but a sticky mess dripped from the eaves of his shelter and the branches all around him, fouling all he could see. His joy now extinguished, he wisely concluded it was time for him to move on. Out of work, low on funds and realizing that he could not long sustain himself on crow alone in the now eerily pink, slimy and odiferous forest environ he set off to find greener pastures.
Knowing he was seeing it for the last time, he gazed about his abode through eyesight dimmed by welling tears. He sat briefly, inventorying his meager, but precious belongings. Sobs racked his carriage, but only momentarilyÂÂI canÂt blubber away over what is doneÂI must move on to find work he thought. Gathering up papers and his favorite plaid thermos, he tied them into a kerchief and fastened the satchel to the end of a stout length of devilÂs walking stick. He stooped a final time to clear the doorway of his former lair. Tired, but resolute, he crossed the clearing, pausing briefly against an over pruned Shishigashira to catch his breath.
Before trudging on he turned to gaze one last time at what he had once considered a most welcoming environ. In the dimming light, the dripping pink slime lent a surreal air to the forest. He hated to leave but knew he must escape the thoroughly unexpected and sudden reign of indescribable horror. Wearily hoisting his precious parcel, he wondered briefly about the nature of the stinging pain on his shoulder. Scrunching up his jacket for more padding, he turned and disappeared into the strange odiferous mist, footsteps squishing as he plodded through the odd ooze. Behind him, in the eerie calm of sunset, a single unobserved green leaf made no sound as it slowly drifted to settle neatly on a background of uncharacteristically red moss beneath the maple, signaling a natural, albeit most curious end to a tenured era.
Part two.
His journey was a difficult one from the outset, the path ahead not at all clear due to the growing darkness and his footing unsure in the putrid mammalian slime. His lungs ached as they heaved, both from effort and the pain of his broken heart. The kerchief across his nose and mouth did little to stem the fuggy, vile stench that invaded his nostrils with each hungry gasp for breath, but he stoically stumbled on through the red ferns. ÂI must find a well-traveled road or I most surely will perish and no one will even know I am gone he thought as he slowly inched forward, his hard fought progress but a snailÂs pace. Twice he stumbled only to catch himself with his walking stick. Comforted by his stout rod, he wound his way through the shallow valley, picking his way toward a rise ahead.
His hands bled from slight punctures as the araliaceae staff he carried chafed though his worn gloves. Aha, he finally realizedÂÂI always keep two of everythingÂI have another pair of gloves in my satchelÂIÂll just wear them over these for better protectionÂ. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, he took just a sip of stale ginger tea from his favorite plaid thermos, saving as much as he could. He removed the gloves, then carefully re-wrapped his bundle to protect his precious earthen jar of ethers before donning the extra set of skins on his aching hands. After finishing this simple task he trudged on with a thin but renewed sense of self reliance and confidenceÂ
Unable to reconcile the idea that he would likely never again return to the wood by the bay, he entertained himself with sweet memories of time spent by his hovel. While his had been a lonely existence, he had found pleasure in maintaining the little clearing in the thorny brush by the path to the sea. Many a misty morning had been spent clipping water sprouts from his beloved Japanese maple. It did not matter to him that it looked more like a catÂs back than a lionÂs head. His pruning skill had been honed on that tree and now he missed it and his rustic hut terribly.
Big crocodile tears welled up in his eyes as he fondly reflected on his many thoughtful journal entries by the fire. At least he had a record of all the good times, together with his other important papers. ÂThose credentials may help convince prospective future employers of my design capabilities he thought as he crested the small hill.
He sat tiredly on a Eucalyptus stump to catch his breath while he gazed at the blinking lights of his favorite city across the Willamette. Weary from his struggles, he decided to spend the night there on the small knoll, despite the overpowering malodorous stench. Gathering branches to make a kit, he reasoned that tomorrow would be a new dayÂhe would visit the public works department to see if they might need his expertise. Gathering his garment about himself he was comforted by the idea that the familiar scent of his perspiration soaked, cloak might somehow mask the strange rotting and oily stench that had befallen the forest. As the strange alchemy of scents assaulted his olfactory organs he thought for a moment he smelled cat scat. At last exhaustion released him from his cares as he slipped into a dreamless albeit olid slumber.
acj7000
John_D
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