"I was just trying to write out my thoughts but I couldn't get them to please me. They seem so stiff and foolish directly they're written down on white paper with black ink."
I get totally lost writing sometimes. My steam appears to run out. I can't seem to take a passage through from beginning to end, but rather than tackle this, I distract myself. I put down my pen as if it has given me an electric jolt and simply cannot go on. I look at the pen and almost feel afraid before slamming the book shut and pushing these thoughts out of my mind.
Why is it that I can't thoroughly tell a tale? After some time has passed, I return to the scene, reading and rereading the passage. I trace the breadcrumbs of the story, which form a heavy blanket at first, then a liberal peppering, a generous scatter, a snowy-soft dusting... all diminishing to a pathetic trail that stops itself either dead or sits plainly in the wake of a few stray specks thrown in carelessly as an afterthought.
I write under the magic of fanciful whims that often disappear as quickly as they came. This sounds like a harsh reflection on myself but as far as technique or composition really goes, I have little grasp in comparison to the books I read of great and good writers. Just a steady stream of clumsy consciousness that sometimes shines magnificently but often dwindles to a dull glow.
When I commit something to paper, it automatically seems contrived and I think that to write well is to subtly deliver a feeling and to temper and tease an emotion, rather than boldly emblazon it across the page.
This is part of the reason I have been so quiet as of late. That, and because I am hunting out new nooks in this endless, sprawling city of London, adjusting to a life where scribbling in cafés isn't part of my daily life.
Most of all, I just want to be a better writer and I hope one day that I will be.
"Fancies are like shadows... you can't cage them, they're such wayward, dancing things- but perhaps I'll learn the secret some day if I keep on trying."