Fifth January Blog. 22-1-15
How difficult or easy is it to paint a picture in words?
For some, quite easy. They have a definite way of piecing words or sentences together, making the reader feel that they are in that world of the piece of writing ( either book, blog, statement etc), inhabits, and can understand exactly what the writer meant to impart when they wrote the piece.
Others have to stretch, look up in dictionaries, words that sound better than the humdum, ordinary, vernacular words they would normally write in.
Of course, readers too have differnt ideas as to how they like their books to come over. Also, some schools of thought, prefer to have little description. I have read all kinds and none conform completely. I think, in the end, it all depends on the reader preferences, and there are so many of those out in the world. Some ideas are ‘old hat’ and simply may not apply to modern readership, generally speaking. I suppose that is the reason for all the different types of books out in the marketplace today.
Personally, I have mostly preferred lots of descriptive prose, less dialogue. However, in recent years, I have tried to use more dialogue where necessary. Sometimes that works, and sometimes. .. not so much. Then there are pieces that are, of necessity, descriptive prose.
The above is just one of those questions one asks oneself on occasion, without necessarily having an answer.
Now to the above picture.
Hopefully, ( if it goes though) the picture is one I painted many, many moons ago.
I had visited Canada, for the first ( but not the last) time), in 1960. A veritable lifetime past. More of that another time, maybe. My friend and her family, with whom I was staying, in Toronto, organised a side trip to Niagara Falls, intending to go across The Rainbow Bridge, into the United States of America. A kind of dream destination at that time. However, we discovered, later, too late, I had left my passport back in Toronto. So, no trip across The Rainbow Bridge, but a lovely afternoon was spent watching The Falls. The sun shone, with that kind of hazy, dreamlike quality of a warm early fall day.
I leant on the railings, watching the Niagara River wending its way along the Niagara Gorge. Over on the US side, some distance away, I could hear men at work, hammering something. Any other audios were distant, etherial. Not part of that day.
We went on a boat called, then, The Maid of the Mist, which went very close to both the American, and further along, the Canadian Horseshoe Falls ( called so because of their semi-circular shape worn by the millions of gallons of water pouring over the rock edges). I do not think we stayed until nightfall that time, but I did buy a picture postcard of the Falls at Night, with floodlights playing over the cascading water. I painted the picture from the postcard, enlarged, of course, to show how they would look if I had stayed. It was not until 1997 that, on another visit, we stayed until the lights were turned on, but none of my photographs came out. So thus is the only picture I now own. The postcard disappeared sonewhere.
As you can see, lots of colours. Trying to describe this picture in words would be hard. SO for now, I will leave you all with the painted version.
Take care everyone,