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Genre: Historical Fiction
About wil_tomboyLocation: Montreal, Quebec Home Region: Website: http://tomboy-typist.dreamwidth.org/ Favorite novels: The Crimson Petal and the White, Stupor and Trembling, The Doctor Pascal, An Equal Music, Mrs. Dalloway Favorite writers: Emile Zola, Amelie Nothomb, Rob Thurman, Anne Rice, Pierre-Emmanuel Schmidt, Virginia Woolf, Seth Vikram, Tomson Highway Favorite music: Debussy, Chopin, Linkin Park, Muse, Placebo, AFI, Lacuna Coil Non-noveling interests: Fencing, Dancing, Politics, History, Geography, Literary criticism |
Joined: October 25, 2008 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 1 NaNoWriMo buddies: 3
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Synopsis: Generations
She would say that she is like Capote’s Holly Golightly, but it would be a lie, for unlike the American deluded Starlet, Marie knows who she is, and does not lie to herself, or anyone, on the matter. But she still reflects on the traits she shares with the novel character, this hunger for life which she pointedly named so after she had Amelie Nothomb’s Life of Hunger – true enough, the baptism is adequate. She has yet to find a place to call home, and if she had a cat, like Holly, she would refuse to name it, deciding that it is not a permanent alliance, but a temporary arrangement in which she, and the cat, do not belong to each other.
Sitting now at the table, in front of the cheap laptop which she bought in Montreal before she left, she types. I know, gentle reader, that you wonder what Marie, a blond barmaid who calls herself Latin, who reads American and Belgian literature alike, would be typing after her shift. It is, you see, that not all is as it seems, and that this young woman (she likes to think she is still young, even if age becomes more and more like an incurable sickness) is not what she seems.
Did this all start with her hunger for the world, her insatiable appetite for life as she seems to suggest? Perhaps. Or maybe it started on a gloomy evening of 1910, in Paris.
Excerpt: Generations
The Morel family was well-known in the village, it was true. Well established in the region, Monsieur Morel, the father, had created a wholesale system of wines, of great quality or poor, that spanned throughout the whole of Picardy and leaked into Normandy in times of prosperity. He had died in the war of a bad flu, and his son, a young man in his early twenties, had been able to take over the trade for a while. The transition had happened almost naturally, though Madame Morel had found it difficult to treat her second child with the respect one owed the head of a family.
Yet, that was exactly the position Raymond Morel was in - filled with ideas and growing thoughts, he was working on a new list of products which he believed would attract increased customer interest. His only fault was that he enjoyed life too much, which made him a cherished supplier within the community of innkeepers and restaurant owners who purchased his stock, but also made him waste innumerable hours in socialization.
Marie, in the meantime, made only a listening sound that was very polite, and sighed at the old lady, discreetly. "Oui, Madame Morel," she replied, shrugging a little.
Raymond Morel was gentle to her, at least. By comparison to his sister, older and ugly, he was a joy to have around. He always wandered up to see his mother when Marie was at her bedside, and sometimes he took a moment to slip her a shy, discreet little present, a flower, a brooch, a note, or some coin for a refreshment. She blushed and the presents disappeared in her apron, though if she were earnest about her feelings, she certainly was not falling for him.
Too broad. Too stout. Raymond was like a bulldog, heavy and calm, joyful but remotely uninteresting. He went to church and did his aves, but he didn't seem to think there would ever be more to life than his commerce and the rounds he did all over the department.
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