The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes. Oh, no. Not again. I bury face into the scarf. Traces of fig leaf and sandalwood bring her rushing…
Am I Fooling Myself?
Am I fooling myself? Despite many attempts to complete my novel the writing continues to be obscured by vague details and scenes fall apart before closing. I understand how scenes work, and spend hours a day taking notes on published authors –what makes their work flow and read so beautifully?– but I can’t seem to…