The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Hi Everyone,
Looking for suggestions for showing internal speech. My protagonist, Tarquin, a 13 year old boy is queuing in a village post office and I want the reader to hear his thoughts, but not the person in the queue ahead of him. I am trying to give the reader information very early in my draft novel without it being too obvious an info dump.
Your thoughts are appreciated!
TBO
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“That’s it!” exclaimed Mrs Harbinkle, jabbing a finger at her husband, “They’re off to the petting farm!” Murmurs of approval and the flexing of aged muscle wobbled slowly through the Post Office queue.
Tarquin shuffled his feet. He had a party to go to. Looking down the queue in front of him, he could see that he wasn’t going anywhere fast, so reached for the small gold cricket bat on a chain around his neck and looked out of the window. A raven, its wings thrashing wildly in the bright sky whirled past.
“Blast you, Father,” mumbled Tarquin, causing Mr Ricketts who was standing in front of him to turn and glare,
“Sorry,” said Tarquin, apologetically.
“But, hey! My parents left me two years ago, and it really gets to me sometimes. It’s not easy being an orphan and having to live in this god forsaken village with elderly relatives!”
Tarquin looked back out of the window and smiled at his cowardice – he rarely had the courage to say what he was thinking, especially in a public place, and today was no exception.
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Looking for suggestions for showing internal speech. My protagonist, Tarquin, a 13 year old boy is queuing in a village post office and I want the reader to hear his thoughts, but not the person in the queue ahead of him. I am trying to give the reader information very early in my draft novel without it being too obvious an info dump.
Your thoughts are appreciated!
TBO
-----------------------
“That’s it!” exclaimed Mrs Harbinkle, jabbing a finger at her husband, “They’re off to the petting farm!” Murmurs of approval and the flexing of aged muscle wobbled slowly through the Post Office queue.
Tarquin shuffled his feet. He had a party to go to. Looking down the queue in front of him, he could see that he wasn’t going anywhere fast, so reached for the small gold cricket bat on a chain around his neck and looked out of the window. A raven, its wings thrashing wildly in the bright sky whirled past.
“Blast you, Father,” mumbled Tarquin, causing Mr Ricketts who was standing in front of him to turn and glare,
“Sorry,” said Tarquin, apologetically.
“But, hey! My parents left me two years ago, and it really gets to me sometimes. It’s not easy being an orphan and having to live in this god forsaken village with elderly relatives!”
Tarquin looked back out of the window and smiled at his cowardice – he rarely had the courage to say what he was thinking, especially in a public place, and today was no exception.
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