After beginning a clunker of a post, which sits in draft exuding hope thick as bus exhaust, I felt the need to refresh, that is to say, develop, something close to reliably consistent descriptive writing. If that's not possible, I have no back-up plan.
The only actual writing teacher I ever studied with had a label, refrigerator words, that included: large, cold, dark, pretty, young, words that, by themselves, fall short of creating an image. My brain has a setting - auto selected - in which everything intended to be creative goes flat and I begin channeling a Stepford wife who majored in refrigerator words.
It has been nearly two years since whatever angels hover around my left ear suggested that I find, in bloglandia, more writers. I found them/you and one link led to the next. I was given the breadcrumb trail to other writers whose names I might never have known, books of which I could have remained ignorant, music too far outside my sphere to have been discovered any other way. If we are sent messages from the universe, affirmations that, contrary to our crippling doubts, we are going in the right direction, I received a large one, as in five-pound, double-layered, heart-shaped box of See's candy, that morning.
For today I decided against the Colin Farrell clip in which he talks about writing poetry, my gift to myself as I grapple with the possibility that this blog is on its way to becoming 45% fanzine. It would have been helpful, illuminating, to have examples of my favorite descriptive passages. I was ill-prepared and knew I'd be distracted by something shiny if I tried to find those samples mid-post.
I may play with assignments such as we were given in the writing workshop. I may start with things that are shiny.