I don’t want to worry too much about all this—most specifically, I don’t want to feel as though I am banging my head off a brick wall

I wrote the following as a ‘she’ narrative, but then specifically changed the first ‘she’ to ‘Marie’—trying it out for her, I suppose.

It was a narrative suggested to me by my site itself, but I didn’t get very far in a consideration of what I had put on the site before my imagination took over—as I often do, I found something of interest, but then used it as a springboard rather than remaining precisely with it.

Today, I tried to edit what I had written straight off yesterday, but it seems to be resisting—I’m sorry if that sounds mysterious to some writers—there are those who plan, it seems, and there are those who like to consider what might be there.

The following is what I have, so far:

 

Whereas, she [Marie] could see that the picture might be related to the actual person (she had seen more than one and could compare), she was more interested in how the man might stand for himself, without all these references in the news that might, or might not, be about what he had said, or how he had been.  [This first paragraph not quite saying what I was thinking, I feel.  I meant, I think, that she had seen other photographs of him attached to newspaper items—and she knew that might be the man, and might not.]

She knew she was looking at his public persona, in any case—and she was interested in that, had to be, but she was also—since there was going to be this alliance, interested in him—how he may be—privately.

Of course she was.

But there was precious little detail of that, and she knew the marriage [I hesitated in starting to see the ‘alliance’ as a ‘marriage’ specifically] would be between two public figures—her and him—a marriage of convenience.  She was educated enough to understand ‘marriage of convenience’—a political tie between one house and another.  But—it was she who would marry him, and there had to be something in it for her.  She didn’t see herself merely as a sacrifice, though there were plenty who did see her in that role, and refused to see her in any other.

She put the picture in one of the containers on her dressing table—it was a photograph, but so much ornament, like the other gee-gaws that littered the surface in front of her.

She looked in the mirror, and put ear-rings in—the topaz—and then turned away, hardly registering what she had seen in her reflection, her mind still on the photograph—he posing there, looking his best, as she would look her best today, once they were finished with her.

She got up, and went to the bed to see what dress had been laid out for her.

A yellow—to go with the topaz—a muted dark blue cape, not quite a black, to offset any murkiness that might linger in the yellow; yellow was sometimes difficult to wear.

There was a white bonnet—to offset the whole sombre picture that she made, she thought.

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