I'm working on getting down the tone of longing and regret in this backstory section of chapter seven. The narrator's broken heart and downtrodden spirit. Her unique brand of ennui--without having it sound whiny.
I'm trying to dredge up some of the late October melancholy I felt in Paris, and leverage it to this end. My narrator, Frances, is a devotee of the masters. She likes herself a good da Vinci now and again. The occasional Raphael. Loves, loves, loves Camille Corot, especially the Woman in Blue posted above.
The hard, but extremely rewarding, aspect of research is trying to figure out a way in, once you've discovered something that resonates. Blending resonance with metaphor in a way that isn't contrived.
It takes concentration and faith, and a lot of time in the zone.
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