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Entry tags:
Creative woes
Life continues to kick me. But I have other problems, too.
Opening line of current oeuvre:
"Paris was grey. The stones glistened in the rain like the bones of old gods, and chimney-smoke soiled the last survivors of the snowfields that had briefly bleached the city's face only weeks before. Water dripping from the edge of a roof to a balcony below rang out a funeral march."
I need to find a hammer and knock my new muse on the head ~_~ Erik, I know you're down and out and everything, but could you please try not to make me write like Anne bloody Rice?
EDIT
New version:
"Paris was grey. The stones glistened in the rain like frosted glass, and chimney-smoke soiled the last survivors of the snowfields that had briefly bleached the city only weeks before. Water dripping from the edge of a roof to a balcony below rang out a solo in three-eight time. Her companion was prone to translating everything into opera."
That's better. A bit.
Opening line of current oeuvre:
"Paris was grey. The stones glistened in the rain like the bones of old gods, and chimney-smoke soiled the last survivors of the snowfields that had briefly bleached the city's face only weeks before. Water dripping from the edge of a roof to a balcony below rang out a funeral march."
I need to find a hammer and knock my new muse on the head ~_~ Erik, I know you're down and out and everything, but could you please try not to make me write like Anne bloody Rice?
EDIT
New version:
"Paris was grey. The stones glistened in the rain like frosted glass, and chimney-smoke soiled the last survivors of the snowfields that had briefly bleached the city only weeks before. Water dripping from the edge of a roof to a balcony below rang out a solo in three-eight time. Her companion was prone to translating everything into opera."
That's better. A bit.
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