At the suggestion of my writing partner Elizabeth, I went to a sculpture garden for an evening stroll. This was an attempt, in the metaphor of Jack London, to stalk our muses with a cudgel. Inspiration is sometimes far too fleeting.
This particular garden has many sculptures based on classical paintings with works particularly by the expressionists rendered in three dimensions. Renoir, Monet, Munch, and Grant Wood are all represented. Being winter, the sun set early and masses of birds reeled overhead.
Subdued lights kept the pathways illuminated, but when walking by a tall hedge we were startled when birds would suddenly began flapping their wings in the stillness. You couldn’t see them. Silence and then sudden flapping.
Being in a sculpture garden at night is uncanny. Many statues of people—easily mistaken for human beings in the daylight even—can be glimpsed in the half-light. Are they other visitors here for a stroll or are they something else?
I like to write scary stories, but I’m never sure if I’m able to frighten others. What words can you use besides “suddenly” to startle a reader with the unexpected? Recently I read someone suggesting “suddenly” should be stricken from the literary vocabulary.
We were looking for a particular sculpture. Henri Rousseau’s painting, The Dream, is rendered in its own little setting of living bamboo. A path leads through the stalks, which, even in daylight form an effective visual barrier. The Dream features a nude woman on a couch, and this is a family-friendly park.
Finding the bamboo stand, we stepped inside only to be surrounded by bird wings madly flapping. They were on every side of us, and even overhead. The birds didn’t chirp or scold, just in a great cloud flapped their wings. It was loud and unnerving. They continued until we exited the bamboo.
All the way home we discussed how to describe such a scene that had impressed us to vividly. It was frightening, although we knew the birds really couldn’t harm us. There were so many, however, and, despite the charm of the gaming variety, they seemed genuinely angry.
I can’t speak for Elizabeth, but I found my Muse. I couldn’t have swung my cudgel had I wanted to. But how can I convey the intimacy of that experience to my readers?
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