Okay, scribblers! You didn't want to talk about middles so much. How about
"clunks"?
I'm curious to know if anyone else hears a "clunk" in the following passage?
And, if so, what needs to be done to repair the metaphorical pothole in
the prose?
The situation: the narrator has just come from a swim in a cold lake, where
he faked his own death. He's now in the car of a reluctant accomplice, who's
driving him to Canada. (By the way, the passage also begins a chapter...)
"Wrapped in a blanket, Stone fell asleep almost immediately. Paula put the
heat up full blast, and gradually Stone's chills melted away. They took
196 north to Grand Rapids; there they got on 96 and took it across Michigan,
skirting Lansing, and into Detroit, where Paula stopped briefly at a Ramada
Inn for coffee. It was close to midnight when they arrived at the border
crossing at Windsor, Ontario."
Scribite!
kent
p.s.
A writer I know e-mailed me this the other day:
"Actually, I'm wondering what all these lithe young creatures know about
'sagging middles.' I know about sagging middles. There's one
that always comes between me and my. . .shoes."
Sad, isn't it?