I am not going to write a novel for the month of November, but I am going to write. A lot. As much as I can. And read more. I am going to write about my memories from youth and abroad. I'm going to write detailed descriptions of places and things. I'm going to write short interactions between characters. I'm going to write some sci/fi and/or fantasy. I may even write some smut, if the muse presents itself.
I'm going to. Keep me to it.
24 October 2011
I want to write so badly. (I do write badly? Poorly?) I wish to put into words the thoughts in my head. The visons I see on these clear autumn days. I want to write about the snow-flocked pinons in early October, the swish of crystals underfoot. I don't know how to describe the delicious crunch of flaming leaves lining the sidewalks, or the way the air smells in the morning as the sun is waking up the sky. Mere discriptions only go so far. I crave meat for these fine skinned bones. I want to be able to transport people, to make them feel as I intend. To manipulate and lie to show them the truth as I see it. It is a lofty goal.