Some writers, I suppose, are like servants; silently observing the scene, forgotten by the players yet privy to every word, every gesture, every glance. Others, I think, must be like cherished confidants, offered secrets and motives in tidbits, gossip passed behind cupped hands. Still others, possibly, are like detectives, piecing together a story based on clues left behind; or like interviewers, prompting with leading questions a whole life to unfold in exposition. What, then, am I, who am none of those things? I am allowed entry to the innermost chambers, my presence noted yet never acknowledged, to stand as silent witness – or is it silent accomplice? I do not interfere; I do not persuade or dissuade; I do not approve or disapprove. Yet I am there, the necessary third, eyes wide, ears open, mouth closed. I am the scribe, who writes yet cannot alter the story. I am the scribe, who witnesses and records all.
Only Fragments
Love Letters to the Tar Pit
Yes. ~ I’ve likened it to being a “ghost in the walls”; never really materializing anywhere for long; only haunting for a time.
Me too. Have you read any of the Hannibal books by Thomas Harris? He talks about the same thing in one of the forwards, and how it felt like Hannibal Lecter could see him and get into his head.
No, I haven’t. Sorry. I’m a suspense wimp. ~ I might like scary things if it weren’t for all the scary things. :)
Haha! No worries. Thrillers aren’t my style anyway, but I love the Hannibal universe so I’ve read those ones. :) Guess that means you haven’t watched the show, huh?
On Wed, Aug 12, 2015 at 11:29 AM, Only Fragments wrote:
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Um, I haven’t. *winces* Sorry. :/
At least you’re not audio-hijacked.
Well… yeah, there is that… ;)
On Mon, Aug 31, 2015 at 2:15 PM, Only Fragments wrote:
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