The Cry of the Lonesome Gull

I am the cry of the lonesome gull ringing in your ears
And the smell of the sea on your freckled skin

I haven't said much of worth for awhile because...there hasn't been anything of worth to say.  I've been quietly working on edits for Plenilune, which has taken up most of my creative juice, and, like a sponge, have been desperately sucking in all inspiration for Gingerune which I can find.  Gingerune has endured several major overhauls from its original state: it has moved from the first person to the third (for no real reason, save that it works this way), and two characters have had name changes to varying degrees of severity. Surely you know how this sort of thing goes.  The upshot of it is, Plenilune is still too stark and loud and is demanding too much of my attention for me to submerse myself entirely in Gingerune, so that, other than edits, I have done very little writing in the past month or so.  Gingerune's manuscript is only 27,488 words and gestures at me empty-handed and askance, making no move to save me from a flogging by Plenilune.  On the plus side, I have got some reading done.  I finished Harry Blamires' On Christian Truth on the first of the month: very good book.  Well, anyway, here is a very little of what I have been up to when I have managed to write something.


snip-whippets of some hour, I know not which

Another ill omen upon a hill of ill omens, thought Ginger. Today is like the mounding of the dead. 
Gingerune

Then it was her turn, bracing against the wall as Roxane braced against her; her panels never quite formed the perfect triangle—almost, but never quite—and had never done so since she was sixteen.
Eighteen years ago. Ginger lifted her head and winced as the girl, taking as deep a breath as she could manage, hauled on the laces. Eighteen years is a long time.
Gingerune

Roxane’s hand dropped companionably on Ginger’s shoulder. She felt it, warm and familiar, like a touch, not to her skin, but to her soul.
Gingerune

Spring had come back to Thera, flown on the wings of the swallows. A good omen indeed.
Gingerune

...turning aside, they followed the gate through to a narrow, winding stair which they took under the wind-swept heads of the tamarisk trees, each in full red bloom; they sent soft dove-winged shadows skittering underfoot, and the high white walls of the buildings rising around them cut off the noise of the street above. Taking sudden turns, now and then, Ginger could sometimes catch glimpses of the sea between the buildings, far below.
Gingerune

...the imagery of them had stuck with her: the boldness of them, the way the light played a harsh song on their bronze breastplates and iron buckles, the drumming of so many feet, the thumping of so many shields. She remembered the easy tramping march, the little sea-sort of swing in their step as if the world lay uneasily beneath their feet and with each stride they met it at some different angle. She remembered their faces, grim and half-laughing with the exultancy of war, and she had wished very strongly that she could have been one of them.
Gingerune

"To be curious is to ask the gods for a speedy death."
Gingerune

But the flatterer and the rogue twisted his words into a kind of green peace-offering, and laid the thing gently on Ginger’s knees.
Gingerune

She fingered the cold, perfect stones. That had been a good day, a day of swallows and a laurel crown. If only…if only the crowns would last…
Gingerune

He did not answer, but continued to watch the way the sunlight played silver on the whitecaps and in the rushy silence they listened to a honeyeater calling from Phrygia: its laughter came down from a place high up on the cliffs, caught and lost and caught again on the sweeping waves of wind.
Gingerune

As if they were one, both she and Roxane craned their heads at him. He smiled, knowing he had got their attention—he was like a woman in that way, thought Ginger: very jealous in his quiet way that he should have their attention. In the light she could see the thousands of darker flecks that covered his sun-darkened face, and they all seemed to mock. 
Gingerune

Roxane looked up at her then with her face framed in her darkened hair, her dark brows clinched on a small, old pain that Ginger knew well, for she shared it herself. “Mauna,” she said just as quietly, “I grow old of hating.”
Gingerune

4 ripostes:

  1. I feel quite the same in my writing: I'm stuck in the edits of Psithurism, but ideas for Gumusservi have pelted themselves at my head quite painfully, and I only hope scribbling them down will do the trick when I need to remember what I was going to do in several months. Oh dear...

    On the other hand, you seem to be doing a marvelous job with Gingerune - I especially love the 6th one. ;)

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  2. Where did the I am the cry of the lonesome gull ringing in your ears
    And the smell of the sea on your freckled skin come from? Is it from a song or a poem?

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  3. Well I am glad for these views anyway. I especially like the one about the flatter and the rogue. :)

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  4. These, abet not as many as usual, are true gems, Jenny. I especially loved snippets no. 6, 7, 8, and 9. They're beautiful! I am much in this same early stage of writing with 'A Love that Never Fails' to which I feel I am able to sympathize with your predicament. But 27,000k something words is a mighty good amount when one reckons with things. Gingerune sounds as wonderful and heartrendingly beautiful as ever your writing was. I am looking forward to more snippets, beautiful people - the whole shebang!

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