I want to write a book. I want to have the discipline and drive necessary to write 75,000 words, to create a world out of nothing, to stick with something all the way to the end. I want to know the people in my story so well that I can hold conversations between them. I want to be able to pull people into my novel with a few sentences, have them wanting never to leave, always to return. Continue reading
I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now.
I’ve got a new full-time job (my first actual permanent, not-during-studies job); I’ve convinced my tastebuds that I like tea; I’ve still got 18 whole books to read; I am in the process of revamping my entire wardrobe in order to go from college student to professional woman (and let me tell you, that is not a cheap process); I’m saving up for a new computer; I’m saving up to move out of my parents; I’m buying my car off my dad; and I’m finally going to start to be able to go to church again. Continue reading
She sat at her desk, her book open and her music turned to a low murmur. The lights blazed because she always forgot to turn them off, and a glass of fruit juice lay, also forgotten, sweating by her elbow. She was completely engrossed, far enough into the book that, if anyone were listening, they might hear her breath catch as she forgot to breath. Continue reading