Some have 'complained' that the Yellow on Black look was hard to read. Granted.
Another writer who influenced me tremendously is Willa Cather. She can describe the connection between the beauty of nature and the loneliness of her characters like no other. She interweaves nature and character so that their actions are interchangeable. I wish I could do that.
She uses nature as an intricate component to her story, her characters' behavior and disposition. Nature, environment, people, they are all one. They lived intertwined.
I tried, (God help me, I tried) very briefly, in spurts, to infuse that in all my novels, but especially in THE PROMISE OF LIVING, my YA novel.
Thank you Willa, for your gift.
Here, Ryan, who is receiving visions and premonitions, sees the murder of a girl, and cannot prevent it from happening in his tiny New Hampshire town.
There were no homes on this stretch of the road, and at the four corners, Ryan, instead of going straight, toward Wilson’s Ferry, headed right, up a steep hill that wound up a long stretch of road to the summit that gave a tremendous view of the hills. When he reached the top, Ryan parked the truck near a ditch and turned off the engine. The silence was calming. Sparrows flew from tree to tree, the hay in the pastures on both sides of the road had been long cut, and in the far distance the glint of sunshine bounced off the various silos. The sky was September blue.
“Okay,” Ryan said, “we’re here, what’s up?”
“Ryan, your premonition. That was her, wasn’t it,” Dave said pushing his body down sideways so the back of his head was leaning against the side door, “that was Donna.”
“Yes.” Ryan stared out the windshield. A car passed by but didn’t recognize the two boys or Ryan’s truck. There was a Maine license plate on the back of the car. “I killed her.”
“I saw it happen, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.”
“But you didn’t know who it was, you told me you never saw her face.”
“I should have. I should have been able to identify her and warn her. I should have been able to prevent this, Dave.” He punched the steering wheel. “What the hell is the point of having this ability to see things if there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it?”
He punched the wheel again and again like some strange percussive instrumentation and yelled in his own frustration. He got out of the truck, slammed the door behind him and started walking. He crossed the road, jumped the ditch onto the field that covered the summit of the hill. The wind picked up here and his t-shirt blew against his frame. He crested the hill, and the splendor made him stop short. In front of him was a sea of hills, rolling off into the west, toward Vermont, a wide swatch of autumn fabric, large patches of gold and red and yellow of the majestic trees of New Hampshire, the oaks and maples that stood with indifference in their colors. Far beyond and below, there were glimpses of the Pennacook River, a shining blue band accented with sunshine marking it out from the colors of the trees.