I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer! Romance? – Part 4

The Old American Artist, a Love Story


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…”

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I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer!  Romance? – Part 4


Related Series Posts :

I’m a WHAT Kind of Writer!  Romance? – Part 1 – Intro

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


Structure of My Novella

there are two dominant structural threads from my point of view

i say from my pov, because someone who knows much more than i do about structure, may recognize other things going on too, but for now, i’ll go with the two i consciously worked with

the two are the scene shifts and the time threads –

they are of course inter-related in the story, merging toward the end

“most” of my scenes in this book are relatively short, almost cinematic, with a few longer episodes placed as warranted by the feel of the narrative as i felt it as i wrote and re-wrote

there are two dominant time threads going simultaneously through-out until they merge close to the end of the novella (some might call this a short novel)

a bit more on this is explained in the product description section in the listing for my book

the sequence of the four chapter samples i began posting yesterday from “the old american artist, a love story” and that continues today and for two more days, is very characteristic of the work as a whole –

it made my writing much more interesting for me, and hope it does the same for the reader 😉

Matthew Iden, Writer

i would be very remiss if i didn’t mention one of the writers blogging today, among several, who has influenced my decision to continue working at my fiction writing, along with my poetry and images –

matthew writes in genres that are not my personal preference, but the shorts i’ve read that he’s written, are compelling in story, and imaginative in their clarity of scene

for any style writer, i feel he also provides information on experiments he has tried with places like librarything, among several writers’ outlets –

and has most recently posted, as part of his new “Tip Tuesday” series, information he has compiled, a resource list of associations useful for writers, and discusses why he thinks they could be of help

i would recommend him for both information on writing and for entertaining material to read


immediately below is my second sample, chapter two, from my new novella

i hope you enjoy the four chapter sequence, thank you much 😉

Sample, Chapter Two

(2nd of four, one presented each day)




Coming inside the converted fisherman’s hut, old wooden shelving across from the expanses of windows facing the sea, was nearly like stepping under a wide high umbrella outside on the beach, at least like those nearer the big hotel by the sea in town.

Coolness was instant, while the eyes slowly dilated.

Arturo hummed quietly, as if to soothe the slowly lifting darkness.

Canvases, like floating cubes and rectangles, dimly reflected the morning light filtering the stretch of rooms.  The weave of the linen and rough cotton canvases caught sparkles like sea spray catching moonlight.

These were the moments Arturo felt a visitor to his own work.

Walking slowly, the old wood plank floor creaking gently, he passed between two large easels and paintings, like an old ship gliding gently on slippery thin water between rocks of the unknown.  He resisted turning or looking back yet for a peek, allowing his concentration to focus further into the dawning light in the bank of windows.  Faintly he heard the murmur of the sea, the waves’ lips whispering tales of other lands.  He had heard those same whispers in Galveston, and Vermont, about other lands, on other sides of the world’s waters.  And now was standing, he realized, on the other side of those whispers.  He imagined hearing the voices of growing children.  His own voice.  Rosetta’s smile.

Arturo cracked open the window an inch, the morning breeze still too cool, too swift, for his comfort, and let the wind’s whispers speak light whistles.

With that, he turned to face his work.

Thirty by forty inch gallery wrapped linen panels, one angled each side in front of him, made Arturo take slow full breaths of his seaside air.

Layered over days, weeks, and now a month each, the slow rising morning light looked to be waking the pigments lying deep within the brush-stabbed dab-dashed ocean like waves of color.

By noon, the colors would be singing.

And by evening, the light absorption, and reflection, would pause at the surface once more.

His painting remained static in color and feel, only in photos.  The broken surface and uneven layering reflected and revealed differing light throughout the day.  The image itself, when nearly done, Arturo had always felt, lived in the light.

With another deep, yet stuttering breath, like a child finally released from its anguish, finally resting in a remembered unborn state, Arturo stepped unaware, closing the distance to his paintings.

Natural light glistened off the ridges of paint.  In the valleys.  Along the waves of pigment.

And Arturo saw where he wanted to add hints of shadow, eye-winks of highlight.

A strong slow breath told Arturo he was ready to paint.


best wishes in your reading adventures

namaste´ – con dios – god by with you

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