How many fiction writers do we have here?

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vic-k
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Thu Oct 15, 2009 10:09 pm Post

filf! nuffin but filf :shock:
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Mollys Mum
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Fri Oct 16, 2009 1:59 am Post

In my happy and self-serving dance through DevonThink I have come across the beginning of a novel I plan to write many years hence, when all the principal characters who could hex me or otherwise do me harm are safely dead. :lol:

Honor Payne came of her small fortune honestly, despite her lifelong proclivities towards the contrary. She lost it in a different manner, through an excess of her own nature, both generous and darkly manipulative, married to a treachery as mean and stealthy as the ice fog that rolled through the hills of Ballynahinch on the night she died.

She went quietly, alone, a few miles east, in Killyleagh, before the priest could get there, and two towns away from her eldest daughter, a frightened girl who had reached fifty and could no longer drive at night. That was Mathilde. The others--Yvette, Cristiane, Padraic, Heddie--had gone home to America after waiting two patient weeks by her bedside as the cancer wormed through her body and Honor fought it with all the gritted muscles of her wasted face and the burning sapphire anger of her eyes. Padraic, nicknamed Drey, had lasted a mere four days. He had business in London, and a girl waiting for him, and his dry-gutted, wracking grief over the passing of his mother translated itself into an ugly eruption on his upper lip, threatening to spoil the tryst he had so carefully orchestrated. Mathilde sat with him on a bench outside Honor's window. A single, fading geranium strained to catch the sun behind the spattered glass. Drey bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, his knuckles clenched in a row of bloodless V's while Mathilde caressed his back with small, futile strokes. His sobs erupted in furious little hiccups from a source in his body that was new and frightening to him. He thought he might cry forever.


I am wondering now if it should be "proclivities for" rather than "towards"--???

Hu
Hugh
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Fri Oct 16, 2009 8:21 am Post

My instinct, backed up to a certain extent by the Concise Oxford, which is all I have access to at the moment: "proclivities towards" is on the money. A proclivity is a tendency; it has direction. It is not an emotion, an attitude or a requirement. "Proclivities for" would be wrong.

H

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vic-k
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Fri Oct 16, 2009 9:37 am Post

Hugh wrote:proclivities
'Proclilite(s)' is a word I used quite a lot, usually to sound eruditeish and posh, `n` wotnot. 8) The chances of it being contextually correct, in my case, oscillate twixt, slim`n`zilch!! :(
Do you think singular vs plural may have some influence on the use of, 'towards or for'. I wouldn`t know. :?
vic

Dictionary
proclivity |prəˌklɪvɪti|
noun ( pl. -ties)
a tendency to choose or do something regularly; an inclination or predisposition toward a particular thing : a proclivity for hard work.
ORIGIN late 16th cent.: from Latin proclivitas, from proclivis ‘inclined,’ from pro- ‘forward, down’ + clivus ‘slope.’
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Jaysen
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Fri Oct 16, 2009 1:04 pm Post

Proclivity is a good word. I like it. But will the target audience understand it?
Jaysen

I have a wife and 2 kids that I can only attribute to a wiggle, a giggle, and the realization that she was out of my league so I might as well be happy with her as a friend. 26 years marriage later, I can't imagine life without her. -Me 10/7/09

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Mollys Mum
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Fri Oct 16, 2009 1:10 pm Post

Well it sounds good to me, and I don't understand it. :lol:

I am off to my son's college for Family and Friends weekend. Toodleoo--will see you all when I get back.

(Has anyone gotten past the first line yet? :?: )

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pink
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Sun Oct 18, 2009 8:02 pm Post

I suffered a brain freeze at the word contrary and had to reboot.

have a nice time at college!
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Ca
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Sun Nov 01, 2009 1:48 am Post

Mollys Mum wrote:Honor Payne came of her small fortune honestly, despite her lifelong proclivities towards the contrary. She lost it in a different manner, through an excess of her own nature, both generous and darkly manipulative, married to a treachery as mean and stealthy as the ice fog that rolled through the hills of Ballynahinch on the night she died.

She went quietly, alone, a few miles east, in Killyleagh, before the priest could get there, and two towns away from her eldest daughter, a frightened girl who had reached fifty and could no longer drive at night. That was Mathilde. The others--Yvette, Cristiane, Padraic, Heddie--had gone home to America after waiting two patient weeks by her bedside as the cancer wormed through her body and Honor fought it with all the gritted muscles of her wasted face and the burning sapphire anger of her eyes. Padraic, nicknamed Drey, had lasted a mere four days. He had business in London, and a girl waiting for him, and his dry-gutted, wracking grief over the passing of his mother translated itself into an ugly eruption on his upper lip, threatening to spoil the tryst he had so carefully orchestrated. Mathilde sat with him on a bench outside Honor's window. A single, fading geranium strained to catch the sun behind the spattered glass. Drey bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, his knuckles clenched in a row of bloodless V's while Mathilde caressed his back with small, futile strokes. His sobs erupted in furious little hiccups from a source in his body that was new and frightening to him. He thought he might cry forever.


*studies above* Maybe it's the time, but I'm having an incredibly difficult time comprehending the beginning of that second paragraph. The lady went where, exactly? All those commas are confusing me. :?

I particularly like the way you presented "That was Mathilde", though.
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Mollys Mum
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Tue Nov 03, 2009 12:13 pm Post

She went to Hell in a handbasket, Dee.
:D

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Tue Nov 03, 2009 9:07 pm Post

Mollys Mum wrote:She went to Hell in a handbasket, Dee.
:D


*nods serenely*

Sure it wasn't a casket?

*ducks*
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--My brother (while driving)

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gr
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Wed Nov 04, 2009 12:41 am Post

Who ever heard of a handcasket?

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Siren
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Wed Nov 04, 2009 12:54 am Post

A tisket, a tasket,
I lost my little basket,
I wrote a letter to my love,
And on the way I lost it.
I lost it, I lost it,
I lost my little basket,
And if nobody picks it up,
I think that I might die.


And now that I have typed that up, I can't remember why I thought it relevant!
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Jaysen
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Wed Nov 04, 2009 3:25 am Post

Siren wrote: I can't remember why I thought

And here we have the source of your confusion. You should follow the example of Mr K and 'bert and just stop thinking. Then you can type what ever you want without impunity.

And no one will notice.
Jaysen

I have a wife and 2 kids that I can only attribute to a wiggle, a giggle, and the realization that she was out of my league so I might as well be happy with her as a friend. 26 years marriage later, I can't imagine life without her. -Me 10/7/09

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PJ
PJS
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Wed Nov 04, 2009 4:11 am Post

Jaysen wrote:without impunity.


??
You can't conquer stupid — or cure it — with more stupid.

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gr
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Wed Nov 04, 2009 4:36 am Post

PJS wrote:
Jaysen wrote:without impunity.


??



Okay, well maybe someone will notice.