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In Process > The David Chronicles, Vol I: Rise to Power

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message 1: by Uvi (new)

Uvi Poznansky | 8 comments The tip of my pen is dull, and the ink has dried, but that cannot stop me from writing. Nothing will. I am grasping for power once again, but in a different way than I did back then. This time I can see, with great clarity, that power does not come from the crown.
At long last I have no urge anymore to keep my grasp on it. Now I know, power comes from within, from something else entirely: my skill with words. I wish I would have recognized it a long time ago, on my first visit to the royal court. Perhaps then I would have become a poet. Not a King.
It is still a long time from daybreak, and the girl’s breast heaves as she mumbles something, some unclear word. She is so close at hand and yet, so far out of my reach.
When I was first crowned, I was such a vigorous young man that no illness could keep me away from my dear wives and concubines. If I would catch a cold, all of them would be sneezing. I know, somehow, that unlike all the women I have had, Abishag is the one I will never know.
I hold my breath until she lulls herself back to sleep. Faint shadows start dancing on the wall. I read the shapes, trying to invent someone, a listener. You.
I whisper, Come in... Call me insane, who cares? Who the hell cares if you refuse to trust me, if you insist on clinging to your kind of reality, which is as dull as it is solid... Mine, I insist, is not a dream. But even if it is... Even so, it is true! How can you deny it? Here is my story. I am opening it up to you.
I can see why at first glance what you see here—these records which I jotted here, on these papyrus rolls—may seem scattered, even scary. I understand why you step back from my door, why look over your shoulder to find the guard...
Come in! Will you? Will you read these scribblings? Can you see my sword, which I have drawn here, look! Can you see it the way I do, lifting out of the ink and into the air, turning magically over, around and around, right in the center of the space? If you can, then—by the flash of it—I shall take you along, to leap with me into the surface of the steely thing. Into my reflection.

David, in my upcoming book, The David Chronicles Vol. I: Rise to Power



My quick color sketch, David Playing Before Saul


message 2: by Henry (new)

Henry Martin (henrymartin) | 51 comments Mod
Uvi,

I'm curious. Aside from the enticing snippet, are you writing the entire novel in the first-person point of view of David?


message 3: by Uvi (new)

Uvi Poznansky | 8 comments Henry wrote: "Uvi,

I'm curious. Aside from the enticing snippet, are you writing the entire novel in the first-person point of view of David?"


I am, Henry. First person, present tense is the voice I like the most. It puts the reader right there at the moment, and lets him sense everything the protagonist does.


message 4: by Henry (new)

Henry Martin (henrymartin) | 51 comments Mod
Uvi wrote: "I am, Henry. First person, present tense is the voice I like the most. It puts the reader right there at the moment, and lets him sense everything the protagonist does. "

Uvi,

It's my favorite as well. Stream of consciousness works wonderfully when exploring the mind. Although, I must say I always wanted to write a story in a second-person narrative. All my attempts, nevertheless, turned out mediocre at best.


message 5: by Uvi (new)

Uvi Poznansky | 8 comments Henry wrote: "Although, I must say I always wanted to write a story in a second-person narrative. All my attempts, nevertheless, turned out mediocre at best.."

Second person is inherently difficult. My book A Favorite Son is told in first-person but addressed to second-person. Only att he end will you be able to guess who 'you' is. Here is an excerpt.

"I try to recover. Gradually I become more alert and—bracing myself—I can hear things with great clarity: First, the silence. So dead, so complete. So divine, even. Then, you: You moving, you taking something out of that bundle; something I do not wish to see. It gives a slight, subtle swoosh... You are holding it in your hands, raising it to my eyes, asking me some question, over and again until, in my despair, I have no choice: I stamp my foot, trying not to hear, not to look. I am beside myself, so desperate to stop you. At last I cry, Enough!
Oh please... Just stop... There is no need to ask me anymore, do I recognize this thing—this unusually beautiful, striped thing that is slashed here, and here it is torn to pieces... And even before I can smell the blood—even before I can feel the rips in that which was his shirt—I hear someone wailing, roaring like a wild animal, like a father, in agony, in pain, from the depth of my soul.
Let me be. I grieve alone. I have no family. You are no blood of mine. Now go. Go away, son."


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