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Voice of the sea

On this December day my mind strays back, back to Corfu, hard to believe that only three months ago I was lying there, baked in heat.  Today in my kitchen I am escaping to where I sat outside on a small patio;  It is early morning time and the voice of the sea is a gentle voice, a soft, tender voice. From the balcony overhead comes the babbling of a young child, possibly Greek, asserting himself.  Otherwise the air is still around me and within me.  My feet are bare. I wear little, a thin cotton shift.  Here it is really too beautiful for words. Cyprus trees hug the mountain side that falls down toward the sea. White houses line the golden beach.The partner to our hostess, Vagelis, picks figs from the tree below us, eating them as he goes. Breakfast. The lavender blue sea, the ocean fills all the gaps.  It sits there, well not sits there but it's O god, I don't know really, it speaks to you, it is saying that there are greater powers at work, it reminds you of how beautiful life can be.  Here the sea shimmers and heaves like a swell of liquid silver, a mother of pearl sea. Later, I amble into the bathroom and throw the shutters wide open, I shower as I overlook the mountain and the sea allowing the water to flow over me until I see Vagelis approach with a plate of figs in his hand. A gift from the gods, Vagelis gracefully takes a bow and his wrinkled nutmeg face breaks into a smile as he places the chipped ceramic  plate on the patio table. Then he turns away and walks toward the sea, his head held high, his step light.  

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More! And much longer!

Mary P, I'm still here.

Your so readable descriptions cry out for a spark of invigoration and excitement.  Again, simply ask, "What if..." and go with it.

What if Vagelis was instead a complete stranger to you--say, an attractive young man, or a cripple, or a odd-looking duck--whom you spotted eating your figs. He brings you a plate of figs and says....(?) This could be the inception of a "hen lit." novel or a sci-fi or perhaps a convoluted mystery, or wherever your fancy choses to create. But let the tale be one that excites you. Your psyche cries out for it.

 In the story, you might be a maiden, a widow, or a slightly bored married woman. It could be a happy or a cautionary tale. A book of a thousand pages starts with the writing of a single word. And you've written the first 100 words many times in each of your "vignette" blog entries.

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Dennis, thank you so much again for taking the time to leave a comment after my blog.  I appreciate your words and do take heed of them.  I feel though that there is something holding me back.  A reticence with the whole contrived quality of prose.  I wish I knew of a way to bring the real and mix it with the fiction to make it appear ''real'' again.  I don't  know if this makes sense but it is something that I have battled with in my writing of short stories to date.  I seem to want to hang onto my ''voice'' and yet, I want to allow my imagination to flow freely too. Is that what you are inferring in your comment? Best wishes from the auld sod, Mary P.

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Some like fiction

Some like fiction, but many of us prefer nonfiction.  Anyone can make up imaginary lives.  I love to think of real people.  I realize, of course, that nonfiction is only one edited perspective of reality.  (In my own writing a very edited version, in fact, to leave out unpleasantries I do not want to burden myself or the reader with.)   Unless you want to be a novelist, Mary,  please keep sharing your life as it is (or was three months ago at Corfu) so we can enjoy the beauty and the experiences with you. 

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Hey, I read her blogs faithfully. I'm a fan.

Sue (and Mary P),

I, too, very much like Mary's blogs. I've praised them highly, even suggested that she compile them, as they are in fact consummate vignettes, into epistolary memoir.

But I'd enjoy seeing what would happen to her relaxed almost melacholy tone if she would ignite an impassioned excitement within herself. Be honest, aren't you a little curious?

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Fiction or ?

Hi Sue!  How nice it was to get up this morning and see your comment.  Thank you for your input.  As I said to Dennis it is something that I have struggled with over the years, fiction, non-fiction, a possible combo....??the seeking never ends. I wish I could find my niche and then I would be happy but in art, I doubt if  one ever finds a niche, maybe it would be too comfy to do that and with comfy comes a mediocre complacency. Best wishes, Mary P.