trelawneylawn
02-12-2013, 10:35 AM
hello, i'm new to the forums and wanted to share this short piece which is one of the first i've ever written. i'd much appreciate some guidance on my style and how to improve an introspective piece such as this. thanks!
Alastair
One afternoon Alastair set out by himself on one of his usual jaunts, taking the road past his home and into the surrounding country. The day was exceptionally fine, and likewise Alastair was alert and light-footed. From the sloping hill he saw below him green fields, and on either side of him were copses of soft feathered trees which glowed with slanting sunlight. His step kicked up white dust clouds and he felt the thoughts of daily life drop away one by one, to be replaced by the influence of this other world which gave his thoughts an entirely new texture. He trailed his hand through long grasses and sang aloud for there was no one around. When his mind felt stuffed up and uninspired, he knew what he needed; movement, air, change of scenery, which broke up the monotony and allowed for an onrush of new ideas. The day seemed especially inviting for rest and reflection, so he found a comfortable place to settle, pulled out a notebook, a novel, and a book of poetry, and waited for the day to have its effects. Being the edge of spring, the air still smelled like dead leaves, mixed with newly blooming clover. From his seat at the base of an oak the thin, bright sunlight made him feel like laughing, and the gentle breeze seemed to follow his own soft inner movements. Light glinted through bare branches, illuminating the grass, sparkling on the surface of the stream. A happiness arose in him so great that the energy and longing it aroused were almost too much for his body to hold. This familiar joy comforted him because it would always be there, unchangeable, and he knew he would always have a source of peace which existed independent of circumstance.
He came here partly because he hoped it would produce a state powerful enough to propel his creative efforts. When reading the work of his favorite authors, he enjoyed the imagery, the recognition of his own thoughts, and the soothing incantatory effect, but more importantly, the words of others somehow gave him the courage and intense desire to create his own work. If he read and thought and kept a pen nearby, something would come and he could enter, if briefly, that mysterious inspired state where inhibitions are low enough for words to flow out, where he could capture the fullness and vigour of his dreams. He had ideas for a story, but was always puzzled and frustrated by his own writing. When he tried to write, the pen went straight to his own introspections. He couldn’t help but write these things, which as soon as they were written would extinguish under the weight of their own ego. His world was pure ideas; he had no concept of plot or character. However, the works that touched him most deeply were stories and fantasies, things which could never seem to write himself. His dream was to create such stories, to be the writer which inspired him instead of merely being inspired by others. But before he could do that, he had something in him that he had to release, and he knew if he could allow himself this first juvenile attempt, he could laugh at it and be freed. Finishing it would give him the courage to create those better things, which would reach outside of himself.
In the height of happiness a faint shadow always followed; the memory of his longing and aloneness. Alongside his peace he was racked with longings, and sometimes it hit him all at once and he felt physically sick and dizzy with desire, and terribly strange and inept, as if somewhere along the way he had missed the boat. He enjoyed his youth but never without a sharp self-awareness of the fleeting, smooth beauty, and the desire to share it with another. He often questioned the path he’d chosen for himself. He faced a loneliness self-imposed but now irreversible, and it was so consistent that it had seeped into him and become a core part of his identity. However, the aloneness gave to his life a certain beauty which he would be sad to relinquish. He was deeply attached to his longing, and he knew that it gave him a certain pleasure. He often imagined himself as a sort of lighter being, floating lightly and fae-like above normal concerns. And there was the fear that his solitude was a self-fulfilling prophecy, which unconsciously kept him away from others, because there was a part of him which wanted to remain that way forever. The sun was strong and he could almost feel the ghostlike touch of an imaginary girl, the familiar image produced by his mind, sweet beyond words, and the only thing he really desired. Alastair sat up and beheld a girl with calm grey eyes, dark, silken and pale, her power innocence and sincerity. Despite his desire, he feared what he desired most. Love had grown to legendary proportions, and its realization was the strangest and most thrilling thing he could imagine. Yet, there was always the suspicion that his aloneness had a worth which others could never guess. Caught forever in the blissful state of anticipation, his love would always be pure and brimming and unfulfilled. It would never suffer the decline of fulfillment, it would be forever sweet and new, and his vision always lovelier than reality.
Though his intellect grew he remained deeply childish, for having so little worldly experience. His preferred way to live was to be buoyed along in a heightened state, surrounded with literature and music. Poetry coursed through him and the possibility of producing his own art was his greatest ambition and consolation for the events of his life. The beauty of the day, the joy it inspired, and his loneliness all struck him, deep and cutting. He didn’t know if much of the beauty was because of his aloneness, or if he had strayed too far and was deluding himself. But Alastair’s virtue was hope. Things would not always be the same. His lady would appear tomorrow, and his worries, his artistic efforts, would no longer matter. And if not, he knew he could still live happily. Sprightly, handsome Alastair stretched and wondered at the hours he had passed. Walking home in the twilight, the air was blue and gold and soft. “Only Hesperus hung in the sky, solitary, pure, ineffably far drawn and remote; yet infinitely heartening, somehow, in his valorous isolation…”2 He would learn to write, he would start his first story that night. The morning would bring fresh hope from that place where he kept his dearest ideas. He looked to that soft grey-yellow world and hoped to bring back some of the gentleness of a time and place lost to him.
1. Note on the name Alastair: Alastair was the name of Kenneth Grahame’s only child, (nicknamed “Mouse”) who was born blind in one eye and plagued by health problems throughout his short life. Alastair eventually committed suicide on a railway track while an undergraduate at Oxford University two days before his 20th birthday.
Alastair
One afternoon Alastair set out by himself on one of his usual jaunts, taking the road past his home and into the surrounding country. The day was exceptionally fine, and likewise Alastair was alert and light-footed. From the sloping hill he saw below him green fields, and on either side of him were copses of soft feathered trees which glowed with slanting sunlight. His step kicked up white dust clouds and he felt the thoughts of daily life drop away one by one, to be replaced by the influence of this other world which gave his thoughts an entirely new texture. He trailed his hand through long grasses and sang aloud for there was no one around. When his mind felt stuffed up and uninspired, he knew what he needed; movement, air, change of scenery, which broke up the monotony and allowed for an onrush of new ideas. The day seemed especially inviting for rest and reflection, so he found a comfortable place to settle, pulled out a notebook, a novel, and a book of poetry, and waited for the day to have its effects. Being the edge of spring, the air still smelled like dead leaves, mixed with newly blooming clover. From his seat at the base of an oak the thin, bright sunlight made him feel like laughing, and the gentle breeze seemed to follow his own soft inner movements. Light glinted through bare branches, illuminating the grass, sparkling on the surface of the stream. A happiness arose in him so great that the energy and longing it aroused were almost too much for his body to hold. This familiar joy comforted him because it would always be there, unchangeable, and he knew he would always have a source of peace which existed independent of circumstance.
He came here partly because he hoped it would produce a state powerful enough to propel his creative efforts. When reading the work of his favorite authors, he enjoyed the imagery, the recognition of his own thoughts, and the soothing incantatory effect, but more importantly, the words of others somehow gave him the courage and intense desire to create his own work. If he read and thought and kept a pen nearby, something would come and he could enter, if briefly, that mysterious inspired state where inhibitions are low enough for words to flow out, where he could capture the fullness and vigour of his dreams. He had ideas for a story, but was always puzzled and frustrated by his own writing. When he tried to write, the pen went straight to his own introspections. He couldn’t help but write these things, which as soon as they were written would extinguish under the weight of their own ego. His world was pure ideas; he had no concept of plot or character. However, the works that touched him most deeply were stories and fantasies, things which could never seem to write himself. His dream was to create such stories, to be the writer which inspired him instead of merely being inspired by others. But before he could do that, he had something in him that he had to release, and he knew if he could allow himself this first juvenile attempt, he could laugh at it and be freed. Finishing it would give him the courage to create those better things, which would reach outside of himself.
In the height of happiness a faint shadow always followed; the memory of his longing and aloneness. Alongside his peace he was racked with longings, and sometimes it hit him all at once and he felt physically sick and dizzy with desire, and terribly strange and inept, as if somewhere along the way he had missed the boat. He enjoyed his youth but never without a sharp self-awareness of the fleeting, smooth beauty, and the desire to share it with another. He often questioned the path he’d chosen for himself. He faced a loneliness self-imposed but now irreversible, and it was so consistent that it had seeped into him and become a core part of his identity. However, the aloneness gave to his life a certain beauty which he would be sad to relinquish. He was deeply attached to his longing, and he knew that it gave him a certain pleasure. He often imagined himself as a sort of lighter being, floating lightly and fae-like above normal concerns. And there was the fear that his solitude was a self-fulfilling prophecy, which unconsciously kept him away from others, because there was a part of him which wanted to remain that way forever. The sun was strong and he could almost feel the ghostlike touch of an imaginary girl, the familiar image produced by his mind, sweet beyond words, and the only thing he really desired. Alastair sat up and beheld a girl with calm grey eyes, dark, silken and pale, her power innocence and sincerity. Despite his desire, he feared what he desired most. Love had grown to legendary proportions, and its realization was the strangest and most thrilling thing he could imagine. Yet, there was always the suspicion that his aloneness had a worth which others could never guess. Caught forever in the blissful state of anticipation, his love would always be pure and brimming and unfulfilled. It would never suffer the decline of fulfillment, it would be forever sweet and new, and his vision always lovelier than reality.
Though his intellect grew he remained deeply childish, for having so little worldly experience. His preferred way to live was to be buoyed along in a heightened state, surrounded with literature and music. Poetry coursed through him and the possibility of producing his own art was his greatest ambition and consolation for the events of his life. The beauty of the day, the joy it inspired, and his loneliness all struck him, deep and cutting. He didn’t know if much of the beauty was because of his aloneness, or if he had strayed too far and was deluding himself. But Alastair’s virtue was hope. Things would not always be the same. His lady would appear tomorrow, and his worries, his artistic efforts, would no longer matter. And if not, he knew he could still live happily. Sprightly, handsome Alastair stretched and wondered at the hours he had passed. Walking home in the twilight, the air was blue and gold and soft. “Only Hesperus hung in the sky, solitary, pure, ineffably far drawn and remote; yet infinitely heartening, somehow, in his valorous isolation…”2 He would learn to write, he would start his first story that night. The morning would bring fresh hope from that place where he kept his dearest ideas. He looked to that soft grey-yellow world and hoped to bring back some of the gentleness of a time and place lost to him.
1. Note on the name Alastair: Alastair was the name of Kenneth Grahame’s only child, (nicknamed “Mouse”) who was born blind in one eye and plagued by health problems throughout his short life. Alastair eventually committed suicide on a railway track while an undergraduate at Oxford University two days before his 20th birthday.