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The Fuel

Just writing.

Every writer has a style, a distinguishing lyric to their writing. Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his powerful narrative, F. Scott Fitzgerald and his exquisite picturesque writings, Lois Lowry with her simple provocation that often reminds me of a dragonfly's wings that were delicate from afar and ornate from within reach. Rick Bragg with his taut emotional pull, Maya Angelou with fluid sophistication, Stephen King with his range and John Doer with his musical literature and so many others with soulful writing and deep meaningful prose that left me boggled yet thirsty for more.


As a writer, I wished I knew mine. I wrote and will keep doing so forever, but one day, I hoped to be found and loved for something that I didn't know I had. I believed in myself, that I will develop it, and with time, my prose will sound intricately me. Perhaps, in five years or maybe 10, but for now, rest assured that my 15 most likely will develop me further into a work of art in writing.


It has been my dream to write beautifully, with a delicate brilliance that reminds of fresh silk spun by a yellow wolf spider after the rain. Fresh, pretty, nuanced, yet piercing through the heart as every sentence hits home and wholesomely brings a bright light into the soul, not dark but realistic. But, I won't try to aim for it, instead I will just let go. Surrendering to the process, because it has to be about that. I won't know when this would be, but my 15 will help me somehow, slowly but surely.


This adventure might be forlorned to the eyes of readers, because who was I to ask for a style, when I have never been published before. The old articles from local newspapers meant well for a learning experience, but no way would I be able to call myself a good writer. Fifteen minutes was up, and this was how much I could write for this time, but tomorrow is another day and more skills will be developed. So, I won't say much about style, instead, I'll just write.


In Progress. Just write.  

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