Here's a blast I did today in my fiction writing class. I actually read it out loud, at last.
I am looking for a name. Not exactly for myself, as much as for a character. I figure a good name does wonders for discovering who a character is.
So I walk down a path between a grove of oak trees, looking for a name. Moss is growing on all the barren branches, and if I look high enough, I can see the tips of the moss hairs electrified in sunlight.
It's such a pretty day in this grove, and I wish I could walk through this place in actuality, but for now I can only imagine it. Didn't Picasso say, though, that everything we imagine is real?
I'm sort of afraid of that thought. I'm afraid that this imaginary grove is more beautiful in my imagination than any grove that exists geographically.
I've been to some beautiful places, but usually it takes a while for me to recognize how beautiful they are.
A small bird with a yellow crest has just darted between two branch shadows. I wonder what kind of bird that is. I can't name it, because it's probably already been named. Nor can I give it a personal name. Who am I to name this bird? Naming assumes ownership. To whom does God give the right to name things?
He gave Adam that job. And we've been naming all sorts of things ever since then.
The trail is getting thicker. I think the woods are now in the foot of some mountain range. Now I'm walking on train tracks, and they lead into that tunnel which goes through the mountain.
