Creative woes

[winter]

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.

Comments

[malike.livejournal.com]

True, it is much better.

[winter]

Thanks :) Writing the Phantom, I'm starting to realize just why my Christine is stark batshit crazy...

[pinkdormouse.livejournal.com]

Hello, you.

Gina

[tehta.livejournal.com]

Oh, so much better. Amazing what a great difference small details, like loss of "face", can make.