Inspired by fog…
Last week, Jessika Fleck’s TC post about snow sparked my idea for this post, in addition to time at the beach, during which I snapped these photos.
When I was in high school I wanted an airbrush, just so I could paint realistic mist and fog. Last week, on my way home, the sunny skies five miles inland gradually gave way to a thick fog blanket at the coast. It took only a few wisps drifting across the road to make my pulse race.
Fog is…atmospheric…transforming…disorienting…the sky brought down to our level. Otherworldly.
Sometimes, at the beach, people materialize out of the fog, right in front of me, like magic.
Fog makes an appearance in almost every book I’ve written.
Here are some excerpts about fog (which will also demonstrate that I don’t always write from a dark and twisty POV).
The muffled sounds of waves lapping the shore enveloped us as we walked along the path. Clammy, salty-tasting mist turned the evergreens into feathery shadows. Our feet made almost no sound on the pine needles.
A slight puff of air on my right hand, like someone’s breath, raised goose bumps on the backs of both arms. I glanced behind us, but saw nothing. Somewhere in the woods beside me a twig snapped.
And later in that scene…
We kicked off our shoes and sat on a big boulder, above the seaweed line marking high tide…Droplets of moisture, like tiny crystal beads, collected on his hair. If only this moment could last indefinitely, the two of us in a cloud world, isolated from everything and everyone else.
If TENDRIL were actually a real book, mist might drift out from between the pages. It takes place in a fog-bound Maine town.
Sporadic blasts of the foghorn heralded our arrival at the lighthouse. The headlights illuminated the mist shrouding the island but couldn’t penetrate it. Once we were out of the car, fog clung to my skin like a veil. The air was thick with the smell of sea creatures, both living and dead.
Later in the book (“Pegasus” refers to her rickety bike)…
The fog was so dense I could taste its saltiness. Between the island and the mainland I flew among clouds, riding through the sky on my elderly Pegasus. The bleating of the foghorn and the disembodied cries of Canada geese seemed to come from the mist itself. I could see no more than a few feet in front of me… Had I not traveled the same route so many times I might easily have gotten lost.
Still later, in the voice of the male protagonist-
“Wait. Will you go out with me on Wednesday?”
“Yes…if I can…then I will.”
The way she said it gave me goose bumps. The bad kind. “What does that mean?”
“Well, you know, if I’m…free. There’s a chance I might not be. Goodbye, Dylan.” Before I could think of what to say, she disappeared into the fog, almost like she was part of it.
So, as you’ve read, I love the way fog can set a mood…ominous, romantic, mysterious. I think I need an “I ❤ Fog” bumper sticker. Or as we say here in Maine, bumpah stickah. Here’s a photo I took last fall. Those are my editorial assistants, getting a closer look at the boat.
Does fog appear in your writing? Do you like fog?
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