apology and a history My audience wants me! And how to resist him when he sends a messenger like the prettiest girl he could admire himself in sunny Farnham! Yes, I've neglected much, dear readers!
If I was still very small (because being a child at heart, it's cool, but with an adult body, the people we are stamped when one acts a baby. That is unfortunate.), I would justify whining and pointing the finger at the head of nothingness bloguistique saddens us as: "Blame it on Facebook! "
Yeah, Facebook and over again. It's so easy to blame him for everything! "I got divorced because of Facebook. "My best friend does not speak to me because of Facebook. "My boss fired me because of Facebook. "I could not study or do my homework because of Facebook. "Vicious creative than this, which all show - sometimes a little too quickly - their every emotional ...
short, but for Facebook, you could read a delightful article by extolling the joys of family activities outdoors, with a few photos of the adventures of my sister and myself at the Parc de la Jacques Cartier. But the pictures of our walk in the woods, I had the silly habit of spreading it, shamelessly, on the site where everyone is. And it has deprived me tell you a taste of our day, because a picture is worth a thousand words and with 117 photos, I would have to write at least 117 000 words to compensate. And I had neither the time nor the courage. It's long, 117 000 words. Just to give you an idea, then I'm just made to 291.
I need to find another text to throw you into pasture. History to calm down. And I feel good.
I, this session, a course entitled "Writing Fiction I: novel." Each week, we added about 500 words to what became, at the end of the session a "solid" start of the novel. Novel that will continue in the winter, with the course "Writing Project . A nice thing seriously. Full pleasure.
My first novel was born of some simple short stories written during my trip this summer in Grand Manan Island. So I thought making this blog a literary trick, and give you the first to read this news, I wrote one evening mist on the ferry that links Blacks Harbour and Grand Manan. Standing in the cold wind, soaked by the spray, I scribbled for over half an hour, until my frozen fingers begging for mercy. It gave it. When you read my novel (!), You'll see the influence.
Each time the horn sounded, she loses the thread of his thoughts and turned away reluctantly from the horizon obscured by fog. Frowning, she contemplates the white waves formed by the passage of the boat, brooding in his thoughts, before his gaze did not refer to the east, thoughtfully.
Ann was eight years old when his father, adventure guide, had considered old enough to accompany an expedition sea kayaking off the coast of Nova Scotia. They were seven, she understood. Heaven was veiled, but tourists were full of enthusiasm: they had the word "whale " in the mouth. And then just at the very moment when his father proposed to clap on kayaks to warn cetaceans of their presence, a huge head sprang from the waves a few feet of their craft. Ann knew what it was like a whale. Baleen trained to two meters of it made her mute terror. She peed in her pants. In the kayak neighbor, a woman vomits with fear. The large black plunged into the waves as she had quietly emerged. The guide had to return earlier than expected the tourists reeling.
The call of the foghorn rips the air a long time. The look deep in the foam of the waves, the woman thinks about this incident, his last sea trip She had however moved to Grand Manan Island, a few meters from the beach. The crossing by boat to the island had been demanding. She had moved to a table in the bar, sunglasses over his eyes despite the darkness, and had dared to cast any glance at the ocean during hour and a half had lasted the journey. Ann hated being on the water. But she loved her house just steps from the ocean, this source of infinite love and uncontrollable terror. She never left home.
is the fault of Bill, she said to herself while trying to pierce the skyline. The threat is the second hurricane of the season led to the evacuation of the islands in its path. Twelve years after moving to Castalia, she returned to the mainland for the first time under duress. And standing on the bridge of the ship, now that the spell on the ocean. The waters are living below the belly rumbling of the huge white ferry.
The foghorn sounds again, it jumps. A sailor who was passing stopped.
- You 'all right, ma'am?
Without answering, she plants her gaze in his. Tell him how she feels robbed of his body through this ocean too vast, and chilled to the bone, and frightened at the prospect of perhaps seeing a whale rise of the water, afraid to be marble, or worse then, afraid to feel invaded by a monstrous love, too, that the possibility of love burning in her throat, she needs the wind blowing around her to remember to breathe, and he suddenly so young and beautiful and arrogant, his body muscular and bronzed cast in a T-shirt despite the cold, she wants to cling to his arm tattooed like a lifeline. But now, the foghorn bellowing again, she trembles, her heart beats a little too much, she chokes and turns away from the sailor who looks always, uncertain half-smile at the corner of his mouth. Then he goes his way, the sailor in the bow, he says he will be inside and it should not hesitate if she needs anything. The spell is broken, she shook her head absently, his eyes again fixed on the horizon guess it, fearing to see rise to the surface of the waves back a glossy, and dreading even more, perhaps, of do not see, does not notice this black back, mistaking for a movement of the sea Or maybe, finally, is she afraid to believe finally see a whale, and that this is finally the wave lying and disappointed to see his error, which would teach him beyond a doubt that she is not afraid of the sea, but she is well and truly in love.
And the fog horn blows again, and Ann jump again, then, like a sleepwalker, she staggers, advancing despite the wave of increasingly violent toward the front of the ferry, from whence comes the Appeal to the ship blind dark and foggy. And there, staring straight ahead, she guesses the land beyond the fog and drizzle. A flurry of hits in the face, his hair wet being pressed on her cheeks and neck, hiding her eyes, mingle with the wind.
The foghorn will sound in his ears, thousands of decibels, Ann eardrums explode, as she screams, pain, door hands to his ears, his eyes close on uncontrollable tears.
She does not arise waves, languid, back along the quiet night color humpback whale.
