he forgot about his confusion; all the world seemed to shrink to the gorgeous sensation of gravy melting on his tongue.
“What are those, Mr. Joyce?” he pointed at the candied fruit.
“They're oranges,” said Mr. Joyce[.], “[F]from Spain.”
Richard's head swam even as his stomach filled. Wine from France, oranges from Spain. This table seemed to connect to the harbour, which connected to a wide world beyond.
“Have you ever been to these places, Mr. Joyce? France or Spain or England, even?”
“I've been to Spain. My family has connections there. I had to leave, during the time of Cromwell.”
Richard would have spit, ---add comma--- but his mouth was full of pastry and he didn't think crumbs on the tablecloth would make a good impression.
“You know about those times? The Catholic Confederacy had fought long against Cromwell's troops[, and]; Galway was the last town to stand against them?”
Richard nodded. Adults often talked about the war in whispers, but it had happened before he was born, ---add comma so it never seemed relevant.
“It seemed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse ---Apocalypse--- had run across the land. War that wouldn't end. We were under siege within the city walls, not just the townsfolk, ---add comma--- but people from the surrounding countryside too. Then Hunger came as the food ran out. Then Pestilence: the bloody flux, the plague. I lost my wife – my first wife – and our three children.”
“God rest their souls,” said Kate.
“God rest their souls.” Mr. Joyce nodded. “I apologise ---apologize---. This is not really a topic for supper.” ---He’s right. He’s relating this for the reader’s benefit, but as written, it feels like a history lecture, not dinner conversation.---
“And that's when you met my Ma!” Richard realised.---realized--- “The people from outside the city were within the walls during the seige!---siege--- From [the] Claddagh too?”
“From [the] Claddagh too.” Mr. Joyce daubed a little gravy from his chin.
“And after the siege---siege--- was broken, you went to Spain?”
“Not directly after. Some of us escaped into the hills and continued to fight for several months. The countryside was a ruin; towns razed, people scattered and pushed westwards, starving and desperate. My mother's family had connections in La Coruòa, so I took the first boat I could get there.”
“And Ma, she fought as well? Ma, didn't uncle---Uncle--- Jack tell me you fought as well?”
Kate wet her lips and fidgeted with her knife. “I fought as well, in the hills of Connemara.” ---Repetitious use of the phrase “fought as well.”---
“Learned to fire a musket as well as any man.” Mr. Joyce smiled.
“And my Da? You must have known my Da, Mr. Joyce.”
“I wish I had known him. He must have been a good man, God rest him.”
Mr. Joyce cut a slice of ox tongue and put it in his mouth. Richard frowned. He had been born ten months after the siege ended, so his mother must have been married when she'd fought in Connemara. She must have been....
Richard thumped the table with both fists. The pies jumped and wine spilled from the top of the jug.
“You must have know my Da!” ---New paragraph not needed.---
“Richard!” Kate's raised voice sounded strange in this room. “I brought you up with manners!”
“I will be forever grateful to Joe Mahon,” said Mr. Joyce quietly.
The boy's lower lip trembled. “What do you want, sir? Why did you ask us here?”
Blue eyes and a high forehead, eerily familiar, looked straight at Richard.
“I asked you here because you are my son.”
Richard's stomach lurched. A rich man with a brocade gown and long curled hair, a man who traded with French and Spanish captains, a man who made strange marks on paper with an ink-dipped feather.... No, it wasn't true!
“Liar! Ma, tell him he's a liar!”
His Ma with her proud eyes, her voice that sang sweetly and scolded sharply, the faint aroma of turf and salmon lingering in the fibers of her shawl... No, it couldn't be true!
Kate nodded. “It's the truth, a storín.”
“You're both liars!”
He stood and stormed out through the kitchen. The young maid almost dropped the pots as he swung the back door open and slammed it behind him.
Final thoughts:
Kind of an abrupt way to tell a kid, isn’t it?
There’s a lot of exposition of back-story in the conversation and it just doesn’t feel natural.
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Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Fi, 11:24:37 05/21/10 Fri
>Kind of an abrupt way to tell a kid, isn’t it?
>
>There’s a lot of exposition of back-story in the
>conversation and it just doesn’t feel natural.
Hi Promise,
Thanks for your useful comments. Looks like I have a lot of editing work to do. Backstory is such a pain!
Fi
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Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Promise, 12:56:53 05/21/10 Fri
Fi,
Yeah, backstory is hard to deal with. As you could see from my own work, I'm struggling with it as well.
It's so hard because *we*, the authors, know the backstory and we want it to be in our readers' minds from the beginning, so that they understand the characters and their actions in the same way we do.
But, thinking of how DG reveals backstory in bits and blobs throughout the books, maybe characters are *more* interesting when you don't understand everything they do because you don't know the backstory? What do you think?
Promise
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I agree. It's tempting to think the readers need to know this NOW rather than build up their interests first. But if writing was easy, where would the challenge be? -- Fi, 12:51:49 05/25/10 Tue
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