Thank you for your time and thoughtful insight. It is greatly appreciated. I studied yours and the others critiques along with purchasing the Wonderbook. I thought that you may be wondering where I was going with this chapter since I couldn't submit the whole thing.
This excerpt with the rewrite runs about three pages and is under 1400 words. As chapters go I believed that this isn't too long.
If you still have any more comments or questions please voice them.
Penoit Seysounné: Guitar Maker
Chapter 1
What Is Elvenwood?
Penoit leaned back in his chair and took a light breath, “As usual that was beautiful, Vair. I especially enjoyed the interlude of the third movement.” Then he added as his finger played with his thin black mustache, “Most guitarists play it more robustly, but your delicate pianissimos are much better.”
“Merci, Penoit. Those ears of yours don’t miss much,” replied Vair Rohnonay as the twelve-string’s resonance gracefully faded into the afternoon air. The old gentleman studied the chubby man sipping his wine. “I wish that you would become one of my students. I could make you a great guitarist.”
“No, no, mon ami,” smiled Penoit as a black lock of hair dangled over his ebony-blue eyes. “I am forty-seven years old, too old to learn anything new,” he added waving his arms. “I have not the temperament for it. Besides that in order to gain patrons I would have to travel a lot. I don’t enjoy traveling. I like it here in Airizay with my luthiery, the birds, my church, my wine, and the occasional visitor of culture such as you. I have need of nothing else. I am content.”
Hearing this Vair’s eyes sparkled with his blond-white hair. “I have heard all that before, Mon ami. You are not too old. The real truth is that you’re too lazy to apply yourself. You are too comfortable and too content. Penoit you have a number of friends that love you including me. We like to see you better yourself. We believe that there is greatness in you waiting to come forth. Your complacency is denying you your true glory.”
“Glory! Bah! What good is glory? Will it feed me? Will it keep me warm?” growled Penoit. Then laughing he said, ‘If you weren’t, mon ami I would punch you in the nose.”
“No you wouldn’t,” retorted the old man in the same jest. “Your faith forbids you from doing that. You have your faults, but being unfaithful is not one them. Above all you are a man of peace.”
What pretended anger Penoit had disappeared. “Merci, mon ami, but I am not ready for a change. I am content being a great luthier. As I have said, I have no need of anything else.”
“Oui, I know,” answered Rohnonay with a sigh.
“Now, what about the guitar?” asked Penoit.
“Perfect, mon ami perfect,” said the man in the satin green caressing the twelve-string. “The lows are nice and mellow just way I like them. The trebles are bright and chiming, but what I really like is that I can hear the octaves. You have outdone yourself this time, Penoit!”
“I am glad that you are pleased,” grin Penoit as he stood. “I’ll put it back into the case. But, before you go would you care to join me in another glass of Shatohn wine?
No merci,” replied Vair.
“No wine?” said Penoit in surprise.
“I don’t mean the wine. I mean the guitar.
“What! But you said, the guitar was perfect, did you not?”
“Oui, indeed I did. And it is indeed perfect but....”
“You do not have the money?” asked Penoit raising a black eyebrow.
“Come, come Penoit! I am Vair Rohnonay the greatest troubadour on all three continents! I am paid in the purest gold. Silver never lines my pockets. Here is my purse.” With that he tossed the purse unto the table spilling some of the gold. Penoit glance at the lumpiness and spillage of the purse and knew the truth. “Notice, there is ten times the amount you ask for. You have hurt my feelings.”
“I am sorry. Then what is the problem?” asked a puzzled Penoit.
“The guitar it’s not perfect enough. It’s not perfect enough for the coronation of Prince Roulaunne de Renoc.”
“Now, you have hurt my feelings. Am I not the greatest luthier in all of Gaulance?”
“Oui, oui, Penoit, in fact, you are the greatest luthier of the three civilized continents. That is why I always come to you.”
The black eyebrows of Penoit’s plump face arched a question, “I don’t understand mon ami.”
“The coronation will be my last public appearance. I am retiring after eighty-nine years. I have finally become too old to travel. My limbs become stiff and sore when traveling so much they burn too often when it is cold. The last time I had a cold it took me three months to shake it off.
“The coronation of Prince Roulaunne will be the most august event of the century. It will be beyond perfection. My last performance must also be beyond perfection. My performance must be something spoken of with longing centuries long after I am dead and gone, not just for my glory, but for the greater glory of Prince Roulaunne de Renoc and the Kingdom of Gaulance. My performance, my art must be beyond perfection …and so Mon ami, Penoit: so must be your creation. Your guitar must be beyond perfection.”
“What is wrong with perfection?” asked Penoit miffed. “Perfection is perfection.”
“The problem, Penoit,” added Rohnonay gently, “is that over the years you have created a number of beautiful wooden gems. They compete with this one’s aesthetics and tonality. While my trained ears know that this one is prince of your creations, it is not king. Others with less discerning ears and taste than mine may and will question its perfection. I cannot permit only perfection. “I am Rohnonay. I need something more. I am sorry, Penoit. I am truly sorry. I cannot accept your perfect guitar. The guitar that I require must be beyond the question: is there a greater guitar?”
Penoit sat dazed and sapped of vitality.
In the stunned quiet came a rap at the open kitchen door. A very animated man covered with sawdust, the smell of wood, came bustling in, gave a short bow, and said, “Pardon, Monsieur Penoit, but I have a lot of wood for your fireplace and of course, wood for your creations.”
Then he scurried over to the kitchen fireplace, and with a loud clatter dropped the wood. He then brushed the dust off his clothes doing so he noticed Penoit’s dejected expression. “Hey, hey Mon ami, Butterball, what is with the long mouth on the round face?”
Fire came to Penoit’s coal blue-black eyes. He stood and straightened his pale yellow shirt around his pudgy body then his small mustache, “Cairto, you should show me more respect. I am not a common laborer, but a craftsman.” Then he added with a hand flourish, “If you will an artist. An artist extraordinaire.”
Then with a stiff arm he shot out a finger pointing at Rohnonay with disdain curling from his lips, “This man, Cairto, this man, this man of culture claims that my perfect guitar is not good enough for the coronation of Prince Roulaunne de Renoc.” Then with another sneer he added, “He says
Cairto turned his thin red hair head to Rohnonay and asked, “Is that so, mon ami?”
the greatness will be questioned.”
Turning his slender palms outward and hunching his wide shoulders he replied, “It is so, mon ami.”
Penoit folded his arms across his puffed out chest, Rohnonay just sat with a tired and sad expression on his long face. Cairto put his hands into his stained pockets and rocked on his heels. There was silence.
“Do you really question his craftsmanship?” asked Cairto.
A shocked expression came to Vair Rohnonay’s face, “Of course not! I have bought three other guitars from him paying a king’s ransom for each. But I have never regretted doing so. He is the best. On the continent of Yoo O’ray, he is the greatest of all luthiers. That is why I came to him again.”
Again Cairto paused and rocked on his heels. “Then if it is not the craftsmanship, then perhaps, it is the quality of the wood that is in question.”
This excerpt with the rewrite runs about three pages and is under 1400 words. As chapters go I believed that this isn't too long.
If you still have any more comments or questions please voice them.
“Elvenwood: there is no such thing and there is no such thing as magic.”
Penoit Seysounné: Guitar Maker
Chapter 1
What Is Elvenwood?
Penoit leaned back in his chair and took a light breath, “As usual that was beautiful, Vair. I especially enjoyed the interlude of the third movement.” Then he added as his finger played with his thin black mustache, “Most guitarists play it more robustly, but your delicate pianissimos are much better.”
“Merci, Penoit. Those ears of yours don’t miss much,” replied Vair Rohnonay as the twelve-string’s resonance gracefully faded into the afternoon air. The old gentleman studied the chubby man sipping his wine. “I wish that you would become one of my students. I could make you a great guitarist.”
“No, no, mon ami,” smiled Penoit as a black lock of hair dangled over his ebony-blue eyes. “I am forty-seven years old, too old to learn anything new,” he added waving his arms. “I have not the temperament for it. Besides that in order to gain patrons I would have to travel a lot. I don’t enjoy traveling. I like it here in Airizay with my luthiery, the birds, my church, my wine, and the occasional visitor of culture such as you. I have need of nothing else. I am content.”
Hearing this Vair’s eyes sparkled with his blond-white hair. “I have heard all that before, Mon ami. You are not too old. The real truth is that you’re too lazy to apply yourself. You are too comfortable and too content. Penoit you have a number of friends that love you including me. We like to see you better yourself. We believe that there is greatness in you waiting to come forth. Your complacency is denying you your true glory.”
“Glory! Bah! What good is glory? Will it feed me? Will it keep me warm?” growled Penoit. Then laughing he said, ‘If you weren’t, mon ami I would punch you in the nose.”
“No you wouldn’t,” retorted the old man in the same jest. “Your faith forbids you from doing that. You have your faults, but being unfaithful is not one them. Above all you are a man of peace.”
What pretended anger Penoit had disappeared. “Merci, mon ami, but I am not ready for a change. I am content being a great luthier. As I have said, I have no need of anything else.”
“Oui, I know,” answered Rohnonay with a sigh.
“Now, what about the guitar?” asked Penoit.
“Perfect, mon ami perfect,” said the man in the satin green caressing the twelve-string. “The lows are nice and mellow just way I like them. The trebles are bright and chiming, but what I really like is that I can hear the octaves. You have outdone yourself this time, Penoit!”
“I am glad that you are pleased,” grin Penoit as he stood. “I’ll put it back into the case. But, before you go would you care to join me in another glass of Shatohn wine?
No merci,” replied Vair.
“No wine?” said Penoit in surprise.
“I don’t mean the wine. I mean the guitar.
“What! But you said, the guitar was perfect, did you not?”
“Oui, indeed I did. And it is indeed perfect but....”
“You do not have the money?” asked Penoit raising a black eyebrow.
“Come, come Penoit! I am Vair Rohnonay the greatest troubadour on all three continents! I am paid in the purest gold. Silver never lines my pockets. Here is my purse.” With that he tossed the purse unto the table spilling some of the gold. Penoit glance at the lumpiness and spillage of the purse and knew the truth. “Notice, there is ten times the amount you ask for. You have hurt my feelings.”
“I am sorry. Then what is the problem?” asked a puzzled Penoit.
“The guitar it’s not perfect enough. It’s not perfect enough for the coronation of Prince Roulaunne de Renoc.”
“Now, you have hurt my feelings. Am I not the greatest luthier in all of Gaulance?”
“Oui, oui, Penoit, in fact, you are the greatest luthier of the three civilized continents. That is why I always come to you.”
The black eyebrows of Penoit’s plump face arched a question, “I don’t understand mon ami.”
“The coronation will be my last public appearance. I am retiring after eighty-nine years. I have finally become too old to travel. My limbs become stiff and sore when traveling so much they burn too often when it is cold. The last time I had a cold it took me three months to shake it off.
“The coronation of Prince Roulaunne will be the most august event of the century. It will be beyond perfection. My last performance must also be beyond perfection. My performance must be something spoken of with longing centuries long after I am dead and gone, not just for my glory, but for the greater glory of Prince Roulaunne de Renoc and the Kingdom of Gaulance. My performance, my art must be beyond perfection …and so Mon ami, Penoit: so must be your creation. Your guitar must be beyond perfection.”
“What is wrong with perfection?” asked Penoit miffed. “Perfection is perfection.”
“The problem, Penoit,” added Rohnonay gently, “is that over the years you have created a number of beautiful wooden gems. They compete with this one’s aesthetics and tonality. While my trained ears know that this one is prince of your creations, it is not king. Others with less discerning ears and taste than mine may and will question its perfection. I cannot permit only perfection. “I am Rohnonay. I need something more. I am sorry, Penoit. I am truly sorry. I cannot accept your perfect guitar. The guitar that I require must be beyond the question: is there a greater guitar?”
Penoit sat dazed and sapped of vitality.
In the stunned quiet came a rap at the open kitchen door. A very animated man covered with sawdust, the smell of wood, came bustling in, gave a short bow, and said, “Pardon, Monsieur Penoit, but I have a lot of wood for your fireplace and of course, wood for your creations.”
Then he scurried over to the kitchen fireplace, and with a loud clatter dropped the wood. He then brushed the dust off his clothes doing so he noticed Penoit’s dejected expression. “Hey, hey Mon ami, Butterball, what is with the long mouth on the round face?”
Fire came to Penoit’s coal blue-black eyes. He stood and straightened his pale yellow shirt around his pudgy body then his small mustache, “Cairto, you should show me more respect. I am not a common laborer, but a craftsman.” Then he added with a hand flourish, “If you will an artist. An artist extraordinaire.”
Then with a stiff arm he shot out a finger pointing at Rohnonay with disdain curling from his lips, “This man, Cairto, this man, this man of culture claims that my perfect guitar is not good enough for the coronation of Prince Roulaunne de Renoc.” Then with another sneer he added, “He says
Cairto turned his thin red hair head to Rohnonay and asked, “Is that so, mon ami?”
the greatness will be questioned.”
Turning his slender palms outward and hunching his wide shoulders he replied, “It is so, mon ami.”
Penoit folded his arms across his puffed out chest, Rohnonay just sat with a tired and sad expression on his long face. Cairto put his hands into his stained pockets and rocked on his heels. There was silence.
“Do you really question his craftsmanship?” asked Cairto.
A shocked expression came to Vair Rohnonay’s face, “Of course not! I have bought three other guitars from him paying a king’s ransom for each. But I have never regretted doing so. He is the best. On the continent of Yoo O’ray, he is the greatest of all luthiers. That is why I came to him again.”
Again Cairto paused and rocked on his heels. “Then if it is not the craftsmanship, then perhaps, it is the quality of the wood that is in question.”