The Trouble with Writing

The trouble with writing is that from the first stroke of a letter you have limited yourself. The blank page is a screen upon which your mind’s eye can project the infinite possibilities that your head can conjure. Any given blank page can end up containing anything.

“She exhaled a cloud of smoke that caught the blue light as it rose away from her perfectly imperfect face, whilst the sound of the music swirled between them, conjuring all manner of fantasies of what might be; of common joy and exquisite despair in equal measure.”

Or:

“The Gredunkadunk was a miserable creature. Long and fat in form, and stood upon four squat legs, riddled with humps and bumps and warts, this twisted, sweaty monster, stared at the boy, snarling its aggression at him with all the venom of its own self-loathing, but the boy stood still, fearlessly deflecting the nastiness of this beast with a simple kind-heartedness that did not admit to any instantaneous negative reaction.”

Or:

“His feet flew across the cobbled streets, the intermittent pain of the stones jabbing through the soles of his shoes only spurring him on and on, never once looking round at his pursuers, or ever letting his grip on the briefcase loosen as he sped into the night, white lights casting his flailing shadow onto the wall.”

Or:

“She fell, and Emily watched her. Her: Emily never knew the woman’s name, but Emily never forgot her curled brown hair float around her head as the air rushed past her, as that youthful body executed its terminal dance with gravity with increasing speed and terrible beauty.”

Or:

“ ‘One more, vicar?’

James had never cared for Antony’s humour. Studying Theology at university was a decision he had made from a misguided valuation of what was expedient to him at the time (all petty estimations taken from half-considered snapshots of what-was-what), but merely on the level of enquires as to his career ambitions, it had not been worth it. If he’d had a penny for every time some wag had asked him whether he was seeking a life in the cloth, any eventual vow of poverty would have proved rather difficulty to take.”

In short, the possibilities are endless, as is the desire to compose and to share. It is thus very hard just to pick one.