My brain and brian are overpowered by long slow rolling dew spotted hills, the lush green tubular tufts of grass waving at me, in combination with other natural type thingy’s all strutting their smug pleasure in my face, as I drive down Arthur Avenue. The nuance of texture, colour and smells are the stuff of normal fiction, sometimes I think inserted simply to fill the pages.
If I have to read about the buildings, the weather, the vegetation and other unnecessary soft and warm fluff throughout the book, I’ll scream. I’m all about the story, the action, the nuts and bolts, the investigation and shit happening. Flashbacks of a vague upbringing, 48 lines of wonderful “plop” ( yes plop ) describing the environment, should be left to environmental reports on the freak’n environment.
Such puffery does not help me to get excited about who murdered who, how they did it, what forensic trickery will be applied or indeed whether the hero (detective-type person ) catches the culprit.
As for the woofery, I would think that the evil culprit would have forty-eight days to get away from the team hunting him down, as they keep waffling on about the bloom’n environment, all the bloom’n time.
Ok, so what’s this got to do with anything? I’m going to try writing some heavy-duty, meaty and exciting writing, with some slightly amusing tales and the first thing I realise is that I need to create some filler, maybe I’ll talk about the weather, the greenery, the buildings, the sun, the moon and other such inane filler shit. What’s that smell and what time in my life does it remind me of, or “wow” that’s a lovely colour.
So, dear reader, I’ll be off now, with my head down and my creative brain scanning the sidelines. Whether or not it reads well, will have to be seen. I have written some longer ones, Gloryville Murders for example:
