sketch into a novel made of x elements — let us parent it together, reader? (part I)

Most writers would rather follow a real contemporary story. Narrative point(s) of view being cut across by inward descriptions ― streams of consciousness. Outside images from which concrete everyday scenes appear to come in a double movement ranging from deep to down. Who, what, when, where, why, how! Characters. Plot. External time, internal time-consciousness, or lacks of time. Setting. Conflicts and anticlimax. (Un)resolution. What a significant and praiseworthy effort of observation and elaboration!
How incredible — and unbelievable — this craftsmanship is! A course of successive events, ideas and thoughts as if in a lifelike stream. Realities being captured through attentive lens and immediately becoming distorted in some way. A reality in which ideas, aspirations, and objectives transcend, by their content, the universe of discourse and action. Correspondingly, stories by design! A narrator, or plenty of narrative voices, manipulating, stimulating person(a)s to “act out” according to this or that array; engaging them to dance to the music of any “tuneful/tuneless” orchestra, or to perform the functions one, the narrator(s), expects them to do…
And here we are, with our own story today. That is my proposition, dear reader! Indeed, a sketch into a novel made of elements you and I will pick up. Or just put together in some way — why not?
First Step (which may also be the last one): It does not matter whether our story will be in regard to how someone gets rich, or just bewitched. Whether there will be a sequential or a flashback/flash-forward storyline.
Let us recall for a moment that narrators can lead you inexorably by the nose to the final satisfying answer — detective stories, adventure and thriller ones can often use this format. Or they can be fit to tell how persons like you and me ought to bear up well (or just become more devastated) after an explosion of torment. Novelists, whatever they pick up to design their plots, can even turn most miscellaneous themes into a comfortable, tragic, grotesque or action novel, and so forth — it is just up to them.
Most reveal their expertise with letting readers redeem their stories, by working hard to craft brilliant descriptions of either a sunset or a crime, or a running away. Just to mention few possibilities! By doing so well on featuring their characters, who drive the story and do all the actions that propel the plot forward, these are writers of excellence. I am not! I am not supposed to be recognized as a successful novelist, a well accepted one. I cannot keep up with them — those well versed novelists. The image I capture from reality is just another. What is yours, my reader?
With or without distortion, from here, this briefness I believe that I am encapsulated in, the mirror’s hollow is covered. Even by fair means or foul, I cannot reach the inward portion from the outward that I used to be trusted into the spotlight as a thing of art. And so for it, sometimes what unfolds in my fictional pages may be a chronological narrative conveyed by a single representative image. Or just a series of them, coming away and back. Usually it will be a combination of both. But it will most likely be an intense experience that seems to take you out of time, yet persists and resounds in the bottom drawer of personal memory. Echoing through the ages — imaginary or not.
Sometimes, I admit, life comes crashing down around me, for reasons that are not clear or existent at all. When it happens, it is really hard to distinguish the limits between the character and the actress I have created for not getting lunatic. But don’t worry, reader, if there is no hint of either a triumphant or a reputable novel herein, we can make the conjecture that we both will introduce something made by images of folly and sorrow. Not only that: we can feature an alternative to go on dreaming without overstepping or losing remainder sanity; which may point to the need to bear up against most ruins after all. 
Let me recapture: we cannot write a novel lacking of account. It has to be about something. Something to tell. Or just something absent. Ramshackle. With upshot or full of uncertainties. Who will decide, you or me? There must be a literary framing — for sure. And a fiction — or just any (un)reality — from the deep down, that needs to be told. After all, things and every one can be told, yet you intend to do it to heal some life injury or suggest a more enlarged way to look around and ahead, focusing on the other, on what you are really doing — not putting the case, because it does not really pay...
Right! At this point I am making you, reader, hesitate! It is intentional. Do you really believe that this novel we will try to make up together herein, right now or never more, can be over the top? At least, an absurdity, a nonsense?
It is perfectly natural that we feel like running into each other in some incapacity. So if we, myself and yourself, the narrators of all the decision-making on these pages (I invite you, reader!); in short, if we lose the key to open the “magic door”, there will be no reason to wander, no key to unclose the fiction-reality gateway. So let us at least try out!
Confused? Are you perplexed, reader? Exhausted, tortured, weakened, harassed? Or just lightheaded? What do you really feel when you look around and ahead? — and I’m sure that, trying to respond or at least ask yourself, you will not fancy me mad! This quest(ion) makes sense! Outside we burst in; inside we conk out. Or would it be quite the contrary? In a minor default someone pulls you down, even if you are not able to remedy it or pay for your own mistakes — imaginary or not. Almost no one gives a damn! And suddenly you stay away from your life, which becomes incredibly without texture. What I mean is — it’s undeniable! — there is an interspace between what is falling down and what could just be. That is the world we live in right now, don’t you think so? This coincidence — the interspace between ruins and expectancy — you can hunt out in the novel form. A misshapen abyss without frame. Which you can just describe, by chance or in some lapsus of extrication. We, the narrators, exchanging the focus of this novel, sometimes letting emerge Melinda, others your own narrative point of view, we really do not know in what stage of this trip one can find their private and necessary answers. Neither if anyone can find them here. That is just an attempt to bring in a way that makes our readers reject agreed answers. Isn’t it a great beginning? And we’ll try our very utmost to show them that we can do something. There is a route! Is there?  


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