Back and forth, I walk the bridge every Saturday and Sunday at 10 a.m. where he once set his easel, his back to the sun (to catch the walking shadows). “That’s where our life begins and ends,” he said and squeezed my hand with such intent I knew he wanted me at his side, always, gliding past the Seine, our images mirrored in water, the sun leaving shapes underfoot. We walked and walked until his hold loosened, and quietly we stepped to separate sides. His voice drowned in the whisper of those passing—my fingers fretting, dampness circling my eyes.
The Power of Imagery with Nina Schuyler
September 12 & 13 on Zoom
Enrollment closes Thursday, September 3 at 7:00 PM Pacific
If your descriptions are vivid but your stories still feel thin, this workshop is for you.
Join award-winning author Nina Schuyler to learn the difference between description, which tells a reader what things look like, and imagery, which carries plot, character, and meaning at the same time.
In just two days, you'll learn to choose images that hold emotion without naming it, pair them so each one deepens the other, and build patterns that gather meaning as the story moves.
Beautiful
Loved this!
Woven like a beautiful straw basket
Lovely, Chella. “My fingers fretting. . .”
Heartbreakingly perfect. Thank you, Chella.
so poignant, delicately written like lace. thank you.
Chella, you are a master storyteller. I can see why you are considered one of the best writers of our time
Thanks so much for reading & the high compliment. ???
Oops. I don’t know how the question marks appeared.
Thank for the story.
I love how you set a mood for recalling sweet-sour memories.
I love how you say where he places the easel and why.
Could you have given us a hint of why he lets go of her hand?
*love*