Noveling and First Lines (again)

I've been making progress on the fourth novel, Sunset Perfect, in fact, I've found a writing buddy, or accountability partner, so I felt another good thing to do would be to keep the blog going as I move forward. 

BUT, this first post is not about that. This post is about my reading. Right now I'm reading 1984, again. I've read 1984 several times, and each time it's a bit more eye-opening. 

I used to have a first lines series that I kept up here; it was all about the importance of first lines and opening sequences. I also had one about how authors describe the morning. There are far more descriptions of mornings than you might think. Regardless, or my favorite, regardless, I thought this first post would be about 1984's opening sequence. 

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

One thing I've noticed is how often Orwell discusses and uses scents, especially those that evoke a sense of grime. He infuses his world with a sense of grime, dirt, and dust, which makes the novel feel that way as well. 

I'm also taking a course on "the Totalitarian Novel." I was at a department meeting the other day, and sitting next to me was an English professor who taught undergrads, and we fell into a terrific discussion about writing. Lots of fun. 

That might be why I'm writing here again. It was fun to chat with her, and we discussed this blog. She was disappointed that she couldn't come and read it. So I suppose I'm opening it back up for her. Welcome back, blog!