Hello . . . remember me?
I'm the eccentric writer who likes to muse over his potentially eccentric writing. Not that it matters much; few people travel down this oddball lane of dubious verbiage as I do. But then, on the other hand, maybe there might be one or two of you who will stumble along, eyes looking downward and glued into the pages of a novel, and runs into me.
Now wouldn't that be wonderful. Stranger things do happen in this world.
Today's helping of literary fancy is called Poetic Noir. My definition of this non-existent term would go like this: Turning the ordinary Noir novel into a vivid portrait of imagery and emotions much like an artist capturing the light and fascination of an intriguing personality on a piece of canvas.
Essentially, how do you design a salad bowl of random words into a coherent roadmap of sentences which fascinates a reader's entire interest into the world you've created for him? Ah, that's the conundrum. And no two writers, or fans of Noir (or any genre), will ever come to a common agreement.
But let me end this smear of provocative nonsense with an example of something I'm writing on currently. Below is the first page of a short-story called 'Call Me Smitty.' You can find the entire short-story in a collection of short-stories entitled, There Is No Johnny.
See if it tickles your fancy.
In the darkened solitude of the car, he watched her hurriedly walk across the semi-deserted street and step up onto the opposite curb. All the time moving underneath the curved expanse of a red umbrella.
Red.
Her favorite color. Red umbrella. Red shoes. A red dress. A red car. Red … Like the color of blood.
The rain was coming down hard. Pelting the sidewalks and street with droplets big enough to almost knock someone out. Like getting hit with a blackjack. Unexpected. Making everyone run and dance between raindrops, seeking some form of safety from the deluge. It drenched every living creature with a wet monotony that simply refused to let up. Made dogs growl and snap at their own masters. Made women think about killing their husbands. Made husbands think about their wives. Unpleasantly. Especially in this part of town. A rough neighborhood. Whorehouses. Pawnshops. Cheap saloons.
