truepenny's metaphor for writing so that the reader doesn't get lost or trip:
Writing a story is like leading your reader down an underground passage. The ceiling's low; the floor's uneven; there are unexpected half-flights of stairs, bits of antique masonry littering the way, cannonballs embedded in the walls at awkward heights; and there are things that live down there in the dark, too. You, as the writer, have a candle. Your reader is blindfolded. It's your job to lead them down the passage without having them trip or bruise themselves or get bitten by a grue. Because at the end of the passage is that wonderful moment of clarity, whether cold or warm, that is the thing fiction tries to do, where the reader can take off the blindfold and look back and understand the journey they've undergone.
I've been thinking about that, and it feels right to me. But it's so hard for the writer, who knows very well the world he is writing about, to put himself behind the eyes of the reader and understand what they don't know, and need to know, to follow the story and be intrigued enough to keep going. To deliberately imagine one is ignorant of the world one has created, so to speak.
I'm doing a second draft right now—robotazalea, the story has clockwork in it—and I'm making a conscious effort to see every line through the reader's eyes.
踊り狂う== odorikuruu == (verb) to dance in ecstasy
|Left radical is a radical form of 'dog'. Right radical is 'king' (王), which acts phonetically to express 'convulsion'. This character originally referred to a convulsing dog, i.e., a mad dog. It now means 'mad' in broader senses. Henshall suggests as a mnemonic: 'The king is a mad dog.'|