@undiscovered-horizon / undiscovered-horizon.tumblr.com
Just popping in to tell all the writers out there: your plot isn't cliche or predictable. You just know all the twists, turns, milestones and solutions. Of course it seems predictable to you! You know what happens next!!
Keep on keeping on. You got this. Lose the fear, gain the drive and creativity.
This is such a common thing among writers and something I often struggle with myself but !!! I have found the remedy:
write the desired scene first. Seriously. You don't have to write your story in chronological order. Write what you feel like writing; soon, you may feel that you want to write the connecting scenes.
It's your story, it's your creative process. Only you make the rules.
Sincerely, soon-to-be published writer
Charcoal clouds covered the once blue sky over London. It was an ugly day. Cold wind stole trees' golden leaves with every blow and threw them into murky puddles in the cracks of sidewalks. Grey raindrops were running down black umbrellas as if they were racing for something. Watery competitors would join gold leaves in puddles at the end of their race, whereas some of them ended up on black, shiny shoes, as if owner's feet weren't cold and wet enough. This morning, racing raindrops had a lot of surfaces to organize their little championships, but those umbrellas didn't quite let them. From underneath those umbrellas, however, came small, private raindrops; salty tears run down red cheeks just like raindrops were running down the umbrellas. Both kinds of rain dripped onto shoes and muddy lawn, mixing on their way there; making one wonder if the sky was, perhaps, mourning someone too.
A church bell was tolling. Not a very uncommon occurence, especially in Whitechapel, but this tolling was different. Something about its tone was heavy, like it hinted at a dark, murky chain of events that had to follow those who heard it; a presage of upcoming misery. The heavy, gloomy tolling had the same steady rhythm as the heartbeat of mourners. Each black-wearing character present on this morning had their own church bell tolling in their chests. When the toller stops the bell, all of London will soon forget the sound, but what will happen to those bells tolling in the mourners hearts? How long till its final echo ceases?
Rain was getting stronger and black clouds rushed onto the sky. A thunder was rolling in the distance. Raindrops became uncomfortably heavy, making small banging sounds as they hit the walnut coffin. Some say that knocking on coffins is a risky thing to do. You can never know if they owner opens up or not, and if they do, very little people are pleasant when abruptly woken up.
A young boy, an acolyte, stood beside an elderly priest, holding an umbrella over the two of them. His short hand was extended as high up as it physically could, strong wind swaying red from cold limb. In his other hand he was holding a metal, thin and cylindric vessel meant for storing holy water. The hem of his white cotta and black leather shoes were covered in mud. Aside from thinking about how cold he was, they boy wondered how angry his dad will be for ruining a pair of nice shoes. A shiver run down his spine.
The priest looked to be in his sixties, maybe seventies if he had a particular passion for healthy lifestyle and skincare. He had long, pearly white hair combed backwards to cover a forming bald spot on the top of his head. Piercing blue eyes watched from beneath thick, white eyebrows and strongly contrasted with olive skin that had spots of hyperpigmentation. The preacher was reading the last of exequies. His posture was hunched, aquiline nose nearly stuck between the yellowing pages of lectionary, partially because of the merciless wind and the fact that his optometrist hadn't yet sent out the order. The voice of the priest was deep, slightly hoarse. He spoke with impeccable English accent, although some of the sounds betrayed his international origin.
When the priest closed his old book, the small acolyte handed him holy water. The elderly man took a handful of dirt, placed it on the coffin, and consecrated the coffin with the water. He took few steps back as four foreign-looking men approached the grave-to-be. Soaking wet, they took two ropes and lowered the wooden box into the soil. The priest took the umbrella from the boy and together they went their way. Guests, who came out of courtesy, did the same.
Natalie didn't move an inch. Expressionless, she stared at the crate put over the hole and at the coffin below. The longer she stared the more sure she was it wasn't actually six feet deep, maybe four. Her eyes wandered to the other graves around. Under each of those heavy, engraved stones was maybe twenty inches of soil and then at least one corpse. Human corpse. She felt something weird in her gut. One day, all of those corpses are going to fully decompose, making just more soil and fertilizer. Her gaze fell to her feet. She was wearing patent leather heels, brown mud now covering the glimmering, black material. Was she standing on an already decomposed body? She quickly dismissed the thought, discomfort making her take few steps in place.
"I'm sorry. He was such a nice boy" an elderly woman pulled Natalie out of her thoughts. She gave the lady a small, awkward smile and looked away. She knew it was going to be a little weird for her. Natalie felt like everyone had expected her to cry, bail her eyes out, wail and be in utter despair. Truth was, she didn't feel as miserable as one would expect. Jim was her only brother, but after she moved overseas, to Portland, over a decade ago, they hadn't spoken much. Years she spent at family home in Wales were generally blurry in her memory. Their great aunt Helena required 24-hour care and for their mother to raise them on top of that was simply impossible. So Natalie had spent her childhood and adolescence at St.Mary's Academy in rural Powys, while Jim went to live with their father, here in London. As children they saw each other on holidays or family dinners and used to sent letters back and forth all year. Unfortunetely, some habits do not survive puberty.
"You are Natalie McGrath, no?" a voice behind her said.
Natalie turned around at the mention of her name and saw a strange lanky men dressed like a lord from Queen Victoria's time. He had round glasses with thin rims and equally golden locks escaping his top hat. The woman must have pulled a noticeable expression, since the stranger quickly put the decorative cane into his other hand, took of a glove and shook hands with her.
"I'm sorry, my name is Finn O'Connor, I frequented the same social circles as your brother. We weren't friends per se, but I found it odd to not attend his funeral" he gave a polite smile, making his chin look even more pointy. "I understand if you were to decline, being wary of strangers myself, but there are...matters concerning your late brother that I believe I should discuss with you" his warm voice was filled with serious tone. "In private, preferably" he added with a meaningful stare.
Natalie silently stared at the man for a while: full black suit, gold watch on his wrist, gold chain of a pocket watch that was hidden in his jacket and finally the cane, with a golden crow head on its top, as if a victorian cane wasn't bizzare enough to be carried around modern London. The man was eccentric, that surely, but he didn't seem to compete against Hatter in terms of madness. The way he looked, the way he spoke - Finn O'Connor was entirely different from Jim McGrath. And yet, they were nearly friends.
"Did he have debts I should know about?" she asked half seriously.
Mr O'Connor let out a light chuckle and shook his head.
"Not that sort of matters, miss McGrath. I will be waiting for you at Arcady Cafe tomorrow lunchtime."
Finn gave Natalie a slight head bow while lifting the front of his top hat, turned around and disappeared in the crowd of black-wearing people. Seeing him just vanish among funeral guests made her realize how many people came to say their farewells. Not many faces were familiar to her.
When Natalie's gaze landed on her mother's face, she remembered there was still a wake to be attended. With all those people she didn't know and relatives she hardly knew better, with all those people asking about her marital status and current occupation, all while they had no real interest in it. It would just be impolite to leave the sister of their late friend outside of the social gathering. Maybe someone will share a story or two about Jim. She let out a heavy sigh at that thought and reluctantly made her way towards her mother. The only pastime left for her now, was guessing the order in which the guests will get drunk.
