haha, sorry bout the spoilers ;0) But yeah, I'm not really trying to immitate him. In fact, I didn't start reading his stuff until I started this chapter 10. As for how long I've been writing? Well, about 4 years, believe it or not... I started my senior year of college, after some stuff happened in my life that you (andi) are fully aware of. I only got through the first couple chapters then, though. After a long wait, I plugged away the next year and got to about chapter 5. I figured I had lost my touch, then, and muddled through sporadically to get up to chapter 7, but finally this past year I've made time to work on it, and am running with it pretty swiftly. I should have it completed by the end of this summer, although if things turn out the way I think they will, the first draft will actually grow a bit (meaning, if Alfonso takes place in the resistance). We'll see.
Next to other novels I read, I feel like mine so far is a baby... But, I guess that's really the way it is--it's my first REAL book. The others were aborted, but I'm carrying this one full term (forgive the metaphor).
Here's another excerpt!
At this point, Alfonso has come up to an old Italian camp which has become a colony of sorts. He is accepted as a guest by the Fabiani Family. The only truly significant characters in the family so far are Mr. and Mrs. Fabiani. However, one of their children, Stella ("Star"), is crippled all along her left side and is of some importance to the mood of the story (both now and later).
Quote:
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Originally Posted by excerpt 3 from Chapter 2, "He Who Receives You Receives Me"
Alfonso often found himself regretting his openness when speaking to others. This case was no different. The lunch hour had long passed, and much had been discussed since Alfonso had partaken of the Fabiani household's hospitality. In fact, the day had passed so far along (all outdoor work was suspended upon the arrival of an unusual guest) that supper was being set out. As Alfonso sat talking with Mr. Fabiani about his life and his plans, a tension had begun to grow across the table that literally turned his stomach. He had felt this type of scrutiny many times in the past six months wherever he traveled: whether amongst Arabs or Italians. No one seemed to understand him or his intentions. In certain cases, he had been led to eventually wonder whether he was not simply a misshapen, naïve fool. The moral content of this particular conversation, however, was far from leading him to such a conclusion.
'You don't mean to say that you actually like those black-hearted scoundrels?!' Mr. Fabiani barely squeaked out. His voice sounded as if he were suffering from a choking fit, and his first flushed and then quickly reddening features told a tale all their own. 'They'd as soon kill you as kiss you!'
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