I can write in a stream of concioussness kind of way. I can get all the ideas out, some creative cutting and pasting and things make sense.
Here is the first example of the struggle that I'm going to be facing with my creativitiy.
I offer you... an example of the struggles that I face when writing. Enjoy.
Our story begins with our hero rubbing his bloodied knuckles, slowly moving his hand to his mouth to taste the sticky redness. It wasn’t often that he had these intense moments of what could best be described as … passion? … frustration? I can’t really tell from my vantage point, but the one thing that I know for sure is that he couldn’t really tell which hurt more, his knuckles – or his heart.
He looked at their picture on the wall inches away from the newly formed hole was – traces of red mingled with the blue tint of the paint and the chalkiness of the drywall. Wondering what it was about her that was so endearing to him. After all, she never smiled in the spring time - not even when the flowers bloomed. She wasn’t happy when the summer breeze flowed through her hair, or when the butterflies… flittered through the air. He remembered the way she would say “paisley was her favorite shade of purple.” And how she believed those words to be true. But they hadn’t been talking lately. He whispered to her smiling face – “Now that you’re gone, paisley is a lonely shade of blue.”
See? It starts off good. Then... out of nowhere, my mind loses focus. Delightful. When did this start happening?
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