Pictured, “The Old American Artist, a Love Story“
A romance and an artist’s story, how could it not be a love story?
We all love a story that shows how a loving pair, meeting obstacles in life, overcome that challenge, and resolve to love each other. But what happens during the “lived happily ever after” part? What are the details, what might the process be, achieving and living that post-crisis life?
This arc, from boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy regains girl, morphs, in this first of three books, in the trilogy Triptych, into that fuller story of life, and love.
“a beginner’s view: the intent of this blog is to incrementally build a body of thought that works toward integrating various topics, yoga, fitness, and the arts – it’s a process…”
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer! Romance? – Part 6
Related Series Posts :
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer! Romance? – Part 2 - “2 Shorts, a Poem, & a Sampler (fiction)”
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer! Romance? – Part 3 - Chapter 1, “The Old American Artist, a Love Story”
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer! Romance? – Part 4 - Chapter 2, “The Old American Artist, a Love Story”
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer! Romance? – Part 5 - Chapter 3, “The Old American Artist, a Love Story”
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer? Romance? – Part 6 - Chapter 4, “The Old American Artist, a Love Story”
I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer? Romance? – Part 7 – Yoga, Sports, and Writing
The Value of My Poetry for My Writing Fiction
the majority of my work that’s available in ebook form is poetry, so obviously i find poetry to be a great stand-alone art form for me
what i hadn’t expected, was, in writing my first fiction in some many years, how much my poetry writing has influenced not just my style and way of expressing thing, but how i wanted to structure my scenes
in part three linked above, i indicated how i have used a sorta-cinematic scene cutting between chapters, and that most of my chapters are relatively short -
and actually, my chapters are also quite varied within the framework that they are also somewhat short, with only a few much longer chapters
except for a few poems, such as “when it ended” which is in my sampler book linked to in part two above, and also posted on my site with commentary, most of my poetry is short -
most of my poetry from the 90s were one page poems, written to fit on one page, so my wife and i could print and personalize them for folk at mall and art shows!
in my new fiction, i tended to want to capture moments and moods, and recollections and flashbacks, in somewhat the same way -
when i applied this approach to my new novella, it suggested itself as being cinematic to me, reminding me of how scenes in time and action cut back and forth -
poetry, it turns out, is the primary structural and narrative flow creator in my current fiction
i wouldn’t've ever guessed it to begin with
but it feels exactly right, for me…
in the previous postings in this series, i’ve tried mentioning a site i enjoy visiting that demos or showcases some aspect of that posting; this time around it’s about poetry
a site i’ve found i like for encouraging a person of any writing level and experience to write poetry, is dVersePoets
they present several opportunities each week (no entry fee required) for any person to post a poem and create a link that other participating poets (writing or just reading) can see and thus have interested people see your work
the atmosphere is non-threatening and non-judgmental, and the range of styles and interests represented is incredibly “dverse”
i am able to contribute any time i am able, and i can of course enjoy reading any time -
Welcome back to dVersePoets, poets and friends! I’m Chazinator and I’ll be your host again. Today, I’d like to look at the way modern poets attempt to confront the realities of everyday life. To do that we’ll consider how some poets expand the reach of poetry by incorporating non-poetic material into their work.
also, in another weekly feature, there is an openlinknight, where one can post with most any style and theme; it is described as,
OpenLinkNight - is our large gathering where you link any poem you would like. This is a great place to meet and hear new voices. OLN opens at 3 pm EST on Tuesdays.
these have been great opportunities for me to either read an interesting prompt and history about poetry, write my own poem, or both -
i hope you get the time to check this very helpful and enjoyable site out
immediately below is my fourth and last sample, chapter four, from my new novella
i hope you enjoy the four chapter sequence, thank you much
Sample, Chapter Four
(last of four, one presented each day)
Arturo was staring at a small ridge of blue-green paint, pondering how a touch of highlight might enhance the spot, when he became aware of knocking at the door. Keeping the brush ready in his fingers, he found his way to the front door, visualizing the area he had been working on and opened the door. A rectangle entrance cut the dark inside, flooding night to day.
Sunlight showered his vista of Anna, the young neighbor girl, pale in her shorts with an equally pale blue top against the flood of sky and brownish earth beyond her.
“Hi Señor Arturo,” she smiled, a sparkly gap in her grin to match the twinkle in her dark eyes. “The mailman gave us your mail!” She laughed, obviously delighted with the idea.
“Thank you Anna,” Arturo spoke softly, slowly, trying to remember how he had thought he would like that ridge of paint touched with paint. Two dots of shade? Or a thin fading highlight line?
“Señor Arturo, your mail!”
The envelope dwarfed her hand and he forced himself to focus a smile on her, taking the envelope. She slapped her small hands on the sides of her thighs.
“Mamma says you can come eat with us,” she said, her eyes wide for an answer, motioning to her mother, Nicoletta, standing further back nearer the road.
His smile, relaxed on his unshaven face, Arturo nodded yes to them both, rubbing his belly. Anna liked that, doing releve´s on her toes. “Ahh, but tell your momma I have a show tonight,” he remembered.
She stopped, on tip-toe, listening.
Arturo pointed up beyond the road toward the hill and beyond. “In town. Pictures,” he mimicked painting with his brush in his hand.
“Paintings, paintings! Like mine?” Anna swirled side to side still on her toes, dancing to the conversation. He had given her, and her family, several pieces they had liked, when he and Rosetta had first moved here, after Anna’s parents had introduced themselves, bringing him and Rosetta steaming bowls of fresh fish mixed with cut vegetables. The memory brought him a sad happiness, not yet knowing if he and Rosetta would stay.
“Yes. Very much,” he smiled to Anna, glad he could make her so happy so easily.
Anna pranced, arms alternating up into the air in pure play, unaware how beautifully she danced. “I’ll tell mamma. Goodbye Señor Arturo,” she smiled and was gone, running to her mother.
“Goodbye Anna,” said Arturo, waving to Nicoletta, waiting uphill.
The paintings for the show that night, he thought, were similar to those he had given them, though with a twist they had only recently seen, and knew they had liked.
The painting surface he had left inside, which direction it would show still undetermined, met him with feigned impatience. But Arturo knew the surface would wait as long as needed.
The art, his art, always did.
He glanced quickly to the spot he had left, nicked the flat edge of the brush with a trace of titanium white, a dot of cobalt blue, and dashed the line along and over and to the back of the raised ridge of dry paint, and the three foot by four foot surface of canvas joined in one expanse of landscape for the eye.
Arturo felt the quick involuntary intake of breathe and accepted it.
He was done with this piece for today.
best wishes in your reading adventures
namaste´ – con dios – god by with you
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