Hey all. I've just started another novel, and I'm not sure if I want to do it in third or first person. Typically my novels are in first, but my novels are also typically YA, and this is an effort aimed not so specifically at the YA audience. Anyway, it's going to be a while before EUOL and the gang are going to get this in writing group, and so I just wanted a feel for how this third person is working before I keep going with it. So all I'm asking for is an evaluation of the voice--yea or nay? Is it working/interesting/appropriate, or do you think first might be better? Don't worry about the ideas or characters. Some of that will be clear in the story itself, but I'm not worried about it. Just the voice. Here's the opening. Very first draft, so it's still rough. Also, it's a tad longish for a post--sorry.
Ichabod
A Performance of the
Legend of Sleepy Hollow
Act One:
Exposition
Chapter One
The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it.
Ichabod opened his eyes and looked around. He licked his lips a couple of times, rubbed his large nose, then went back to what he had been doing. He paused. What had he been doing? He glanced down at the desk in front of him and stared at it. There were no papers out on it, no books to be read. Not even a pen for taking notes. Just a simple wooden desk with a single drawer. He opened the drawer.
Empty.
He cleared his throat and pushed back his chair from the desk and stood up. An uncomfortable thought was dancing around at the back of his mind, and he was doing his best to keep from listening to it. Instead, he went for a walk around the room, his footsteps thudding loudly on the floor, interrupting the otherwise dominant noise of a quiet fire crackling in the lone pot-bellied stove that kept the chill out of the air.
It was a single room school-house, that much was clear. Rough hewn logs made up the walls, and desks were arranged in neat rows, all facing the front of the room where the large desk sat that Ichabod had just vacated. On each desk lay a small chalkboard, each blank and ready for use. A few books were arranged neatly at his desk, beside which sat a large bag.
His bag.
He was fairly certain of that, at least, though he couldn’t remember putting the bag there. Ichabod paused. He couldn’t remember coming into this room at all. Even worse, he realized he couldn’t remember anything, now that he tried. No recollection of where he had spent the night, or how he had come to be where he was--not even a glimmer of a childhood.
Only his name, and even that seemed odd to him. Once more he cleared his throat. “Ichabod,” he said. “Ichabod Crane.” Yes. That was his name. He knew that. Perhaps the rest was but a temporary fever of the mind. It would pass. He tried to remain calm, and decided to look out the window, instead.
He would have done just that, except the windows were partly glazed, with holes patched over with the leaves of old copy-books. Ichabod adjusted his necktie, then squared his shoulders and strode out the door.
The school-house sat in the middle of an open field, just at the base of a hill covered in trees at the peak of Autumn. Reds and yellows and browns shivered in the breeze, and Ichabod folded his arms tight into his body in an effort to keep warm. Something in that breeze whispered of danger. Demons or lost souls, wandering the forest. He turned from the hill to look elsewhere.
A brook ran close by the school-house, and a large birch tree grew next to the building. A path led from the door of the school-house down to a road, but other than that, Ichabod could see no sign of anything man-made. No other buildings or fences. Just nature and a column of smoke rising up into the blue sky.
He went back inside. Safer there. Sitting behind his desk, he felt better, as if he was where he belonged. He was just in the process of leaning back to ponder his situation when the door opened.
A man barged in, his shoulders filling the door frame. He had to stoop down to get through, so that all Ichabod saw at first was a head of curly black hair. Then he stood up, saw Ichabod, and smiled, all teeth. Before the man even opened his mouth, Ichabod disliked him.
“Ha!” the man said. “I thought there might be others around still. A cast of eight? Whoever heard of such a thing. I’ll bet you’re relieved, too. What? Did you think you were trapped in a first person monologue collection? Perhaps a book of poetry?” He shuddered, then laughed.
Ichabod only stared, not sure what to say or do. The man made no sense. Trapped in a monologue collection? Was he mad?
The man stepped forward and thrust his hand out toward Ichabod, who hesitated before he took it, and then found himself caught in a whirlwind of shaking. “Wulf,” said the man. “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Ichabod. Ichabod Crane.”
Wulf let go of his hand and stared at him. “Are you alright?”
Ichabod nodded, his head feeling close to becoming jarred from his none-too-strong neck. “Fine. Just fine.”
“Oh. Good. Then let’s go into town. This place is dead as the grave, out here in the boondocks.” He turned to leave. Ichabod watched him but made no move to follow. It didn’t take many steps for Wulf to notice this. He turned back and said, “What’s going on here? Are you funny in the head or something?”
Ichabod blinked his eyes several times then cleared throat. “No. That is, perhaps. I’m not sure. I can’t seem to remember . . .”
Wulf roared with laughter, rushing over to Ichabod and picking him up by the shoulders. “A virgin! Why didn’t I think of that right away? It didn’t make any sense, you staying out here on your own. But then I--” He stopped, then put Ichabod down, who had been dangling with his feet off the floor in much the same manner as a trout that has just been caught and clubbed. Wulf released Ichabod, but them immediately put his arm around him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll watch after you. I’ll keep you in line. Stick with me, and you’ll be set.”
Ichabod did his best to extricate himself from the arm, but it was no use, and he soon gave up. “Actually, sir, I have no idea what you are speaking of.”
Wulf let him go. “Of course. Getting a bit ahead of myself, aren’t I? Ickynod, welcome to literature.”
“Um--that’s Ichabod, not Ickynod. And what do you mean?”
“I mean you’re a character in your first role. Your whole life’s ahead of you. This is a great time in your career. Sure, maybe your first role’s a little scrawny. That suit is about two sizes to small, you have ears big enough to be wings and a beak for a nose, but that can all be overcome.” He slapped Ichabod on the back and pointed up at the ceiling. “With me to guide you, the sky’s the limit.”
Ichabod straightened his suit jacket, doing his best to recover from the back slap. “I beg your pardon?” he said, and touched his ears for the first time. They didn’t feel all that big.
Wulf nodded. “Right. Explanations. It’s been far too long since I had my own beginning, and I forget what it must be like for you. I’m about to tell you something that might be a tad upsetting, but I want you to hear me out, alright?”
Ichabod swallowed, then nodded.
“Because,” Wulf said, “even if it sounds grim at first, there’s definitely a silver lining. So be patient, okay?”
Ichabod nodded again. His knees began to feel weak, and the edges of his vision were beginning to tingle.
“Then you’re okay if I tell you?”
“Yes!” Ichabod shrieked. “What is it? Am I going to die? Is it demons? Plague?”
Wulf chuckled and smiled. “Nah. None of that stuff. We’re immune to death, so put that thought out of your head this instant. You’re a character, Ichabod. In a book.”
Ichabod took his hand down from his mouth and stared at Wulf. “Come again?”
“You heard me. It’s like you’re an actor, on in between pages instead of on the silver screen.”
Now it was Ichabod’s turn to laugh, a high little twitter that grew louder as the relief spread through his body. “Silver screen?” he said. “What are you raving about? In between pages?”
Wulf frowned, clearly disgruntled by Ichabod’s reaction. “It’s nothing to make fun of. It’s our career, after all. Our livelihood.”
Ichabod waved a hand in front of his face to excuse his continued laughter, although now that he realized Wulf was beginning to look angry, he did his best to stop. “What exactly do you mean, then?”
Wulf considered for a moment, then disappeared. Literally.
All trace of merriment vanished from Ichabod. He gasped and looked around the room, even checking beneath the desks, as if a man the size of Wulf could have darted underneath them and still managed to keep his elbows and knees from showing. Wulf was nowhere to be seen.
And then the door banged open again, and the man was coming back in.
Ichabod fainted.
