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rhodrymavelyneI love purple prose, a gush of gorgeous words busting with imagery, exploding in my imagination. Only I’m particular about my purple prose. I have favorites. The way Bryan Fuller used purple prose (often quotes from Thomas Harris) on his Hannibal series seduces me like few other TV series have, even ones I’ve been giddily fannish over. Giving such prose to actors like Hugh Dancy, Mads Mikkelsen, and Gillian Anderson, seeing what they do with it as Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, and Bedelia Du Maurier is a rare treat among my TV series on DVD. Seeing this purple prose in action along with the brilliant yellow of the fall leaves in Canada, the surreal nightmare landscapes in Will’s imagination, and the exquisitely elegant sets have me coming back to Hannibal again and again.
All this beauty and horror is something I can wrap myself up in while in lockdown. It has me returning to another beloved source of beauty and treasured purple prose, Anne Rice’s books. Not just The Vampire Chronicles. I find myself returning to The Witching Hour, all the lush descriptions of New Orleans, the Garden District, and a particular haunted house, mingling with Michael Curry’s general passion for houses.
Something strange happens to me when I’m reading those books at a table with a notebook in front of me, so I can jot down an especially vivid or striking quote. I find myself stopping to write bits of story. Sometimes they’re original stories involving my own creations. Often they’re Hannibal fanfics, particularly Hannigram fragments. A scene of a moment comes to me, brought on by beautiful prose. I find myself wanting to write something beautiful myself or try to. I find the key in certain arrangements of words to express something I feel about Will, Hannibal, or someone else. A particular word, touching and mingling with others like a burst of flowers inspires a burst of words from me.
All this is getting me to uncurl myself slowly from the tight ball I’ve wound myself up into, hiding within ever since the epidemic sent me into hiding, emotionally as well as physically. It’s getting me to enjoy writing again, to take delight in it rather than forcing myself to do it while fighting my fear of exposure and vulnerability. I’ve always taken this delight in writing, but I often forget this. I get so wrapped up in my fear, my need to control my environment, to seek security and safety, I fear the lack of control, the surrender which comes when I give myself to my own words.
Bryan Fuller and Anne Rice have both reminded me of the joy I have in words, the beauty one can find in words. Thank you for reminding me of this.
All this beauty and horror is something I can wrap myself up in while in lockdown. It has me returning to another beloved source of beauty and treasured purple prose, Anne Rice’s books. Not just The Vampire Chronicles. I find myself returning to The Witching Hour, all the lush descriptions of New Orleans, the Garden District, and a particular haunted house, mingling with Michael Curry’s general passion for houses.
Something strange happens to me when I’m reading those books at a table with a notebook in front of me, so I can jot down an especially vivid or striking quote. I find myself stopping to write bits of story. Sometimes they’re original stories involving my own creations. Often they’re Hannibal fanfics, particularly Hannigram fragments. A scene of a moment comes to me, brought on by beautiful prose. I find myself wanting to write something beautiful myself or try to. I find the key in certain arrangements of words to express something I feel about Will, Hannibal, or someone else. A particular word, touching and mingling with others like a burst of flowers inspires a burst of words from me.
All this is getting me to uncurl myself slowly from the tight ball I’ve wound myself up into, hiding within ever since the epidemic sent me into hiding, emotionally as well as physically. It’s getting me to enjoy writing again, to take delight in it rather than forcing myself to do it while fighting my fear of exposure and vulnerability. I’ve always taken this delight in writing, but I often forget this. I get so wrapped up in my fear, my need to control my environment, to seek security and safety, I fear the lack of control, the surrender which comes when I give myself to my own words.
Bryan Fuller and Anne Rice have both reminded me of the joy I have in words, the beauty one can find in words. Thank you for reminding me of this.
