I am still working on finishing one the books I'm reading. I did actually read some this week!!
I realized that I hadn't talked about the other book my Grandma and I read. Jack Finney's Time and Again. It is a story about a guy who goes back in time. Wait, was that what it was about? Or was it about a guy who walks around New York City describing everything he comes in contact with? I think it was the latter.
I love time travel stories. Honestly they are my favourite types of stories. I have one, but it isn't that good. It has potential, but it isn't the kind of time travel story I want to write. Time and Again isn't the kind of time travel book I want to read either, although I had high hopes. What I did walk away from is the realization that I don't want my writing to be heavy in description. There needs to be a balance. Some is good, but not too much.
I don't think I can adequately explain how ridiculously detailed this book was, so here's an excerpt.
I realized that I hadn't talked about the other book my Grandma and I read. Jack Finney's Time and Again. It is a story about a guy who goes back in time. Wait, was that what it was about? Or was it about a guy who walks around New York City describing everything he comes in contact with? I think it was the latter.
I love time travel stories. Honestly they are my favourite types of stories. I have one, but it isn't that good. It has potential, but it isn't the kind of time travel story I want to write. Time and Again isn't the kind of time travel book I want to read either, although I had high hopes. What I did walk away from is the realization that I don't want my writing to be heavy in description. There needs to be a balance. Some is good, but not too much.
I don't think I can adequately explain how ridiculously detailed this book was, so here's an excerpt.
“There was a heavy green window shade, I knew, and in the darkness I pulled
it down, then drew the velvet drapes. I did this with each of the other windows,
then brought a matchbox from my pocket. I struck a match on the sole of my
boot, it sputtered, then caught and burned steadily, the wax running thinly down
its stem. Cupping the flame with my other hand, I lifted it to an L-shaped
ornamented brass tube projecting from the wall. Fastened to the short arm of
the tube was a bracket on which a flowered glass shade was fitted; a key-shaped
brass handle projected from the underside of the tube. I turned it, heard the
soft hiss of gas, then touched my lighted match to the open end of the tube. A
wedge of blue-edged flame popped into existence under the glass shade, and a
wavering circle of flowered gray carpet appeared at my feet, then
steadied.”
The kicker, two sentences later . . . “But I was tired, empty of all
energy now, and my hand still on the fixture, I turned the light out, then
walked down the hall to my bedroom.” Really?!!!! A paragraph to turn a bloody
light on, which is only to be turned off in the next?!! There was 400 pages of this
stuff. Crazy!!
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