It sucks being a writer sometimes. You could think of a hundred different plots and not be satisfied with any of them. The hardest thing about writing a novel is finding something you enjoy writing about, and be willing to further work and elaborate on. Lately I find myself interested in Crime Dramas, because of the raw emotion and realness they portray. I’ve never written anything longer than 10 pages, so I won’t be hypersensitive to any criticism I receive.
Lately I’ve been brainstorming ideas for plots and characters and I finally devised a quality story line that I can put my heart and mind into, here is a ‘dense sample’ of the opening.
I sensed a turbulent essence the moment I arrived into town, the endemic aura was too strong to neglect. The extreme heat and dense air pounded my face relentlessly. I looked up at the sky and it was coated in orange, layered with undertones of black, red, and yellow. It was like a mushroom cloud radiating through the sky, disposing of all the blue in its way as it took over. In that moment everything seemed unnatural, like something extraordinarily terrifying was about to take place. For a moment I debated turning back around and getting far away from this place, but as an atheist I have little faith in anything. I convinced myself to disregard that feeling because of how far fetched that idea seemed. Little did I know that disregarding this warning would be the biggest mistake of my life.
Leave me like ashes in your fire pit
Tell me you care but you don’t give a shit
Wash me away in the ocean
Kill me because my hope is wearing thin
Leave me withered in the earth’s hard ground
Nobody will find me because I won’t make a sound
Let the wind take me up into the sky
And take me to a better place, before I die
Wait until I fold to open me up
Always go overboard to find our when you’ve had enough
Poison yourself just to see the light
And put out the candles before it gets too bright
Don’t ever listen to anyone not in your favor
One instance of kindness doesn’t make a savior
One instance of crime doesn’t make a criminal
There’s no purity when everything’s subliminal
The man just sits in his chair, thinking of love, he has that feeling of wanting someone, but also feeling a prevalent uneasiness, getting number each day. The man just sits in his chair, counting the days he’s been lonely, counting the number of times he’s felt shattered or broken. The man just sits in his chair, watching all his friends and all who are close to him spending times with the ones they love, feeling more depressed every day, trying to keep his wall of happiness from crumbling. The man just sits in his chair, not caring about the time or the day, the week or the month, or anything but the one he needs, he just wonders when all of his pain will be washed away.