Writing prose fiction is like writing poetry.... I have yet again
revised the opening paragraphs of the Swindle novel, written in prose.
It is the images... how am I to say this is prose against poetry... not
sure if it can be done (but we are talking literary novels here, I
guess?) Something I find interesting. Writing prose as if it were
poetry... taking Plato's expulsion of poets and novelist from the
republic at face value? Draft as follows...
A film crew with cameras mounted on three remote control miniature
helicopters and two large cameras on rail tracks zooming back and
forward are shooting a television advertisement.
A naked young man and woman stand in a white antique bath embracing,
hair frothy with shampoo which drips down the woman's back until a
strong fan blows the froth up into the air.
Gavin pauses and looks at the film set before looking out to the
breaking waves and the surfers beyond the breakers on their boards. He
resumes walking toward the beach.
He is stopped on the pavement by a pair of soldiers carrying olive green
guns for a routine identity check. Gavin pulls his plastic identity card
from the pocket of his board shorts and hands it to the younger soldier
who smiles and thanks him before scanning the card. The older soldier
looks at the scanner without changing his facial expression and nods.
The younger soldier returns the card to Gavin and smiles again, nodding
his head.
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