Church at Marissel,
Jean Baptiste Camille Corot,
The more we know, the more we don't.
Adjectives are bad; adverbs are horrible; description is disgustingly amateur; figures of speech are untimely and ruthlessly ripped -- a hammer-blow cacophony telling us how we should write.
And yet. And yet I read of more than one agent professing paroxysms of delight over receiving samples of lyrical prose.
Yes, I know. It's all about the degree, the balance, the appropriate choice and place and use.
What brought this on was Tannith Lee, known for her lush visuals of lyric horror. While rooting through the bookstore in search of appropriate material to parcel up for outremer, I came across a couple of her novels. She reminds me of George R.R. Martin: the close embrace of sex and death, and the human capacity for corruption, treachery and betrayal.
The river flexed its gleaming muscles.
And as a reader/co-traveller in her world, in torch light glancing from the stone bridge above, I see it thus/remember it so from some former life.
A number of you have this same rich resonance of style. Please don't lose it.
And by sweet synchronicity, Writtenwyrdd -- who is one of those -- is holding a contest to celebrate her bloggaversary and invites entries in inner purple and luxuriant, lapidary language.