I’m fairly new to writing fiction. I have always been scared to write imaginatively, creatively; outside my own experiences. It has been easier to play with words within the context of subjects I am familiar and comfortable with.
She held the letter in her hand. How did he know? She looked around her; at a room that seemed to belong to someone else. Objects collected by another her, in another time, crowded each surface. Meant to bring comfort, but instead bringing only a sense of disconnection.
I didn’t manage to join in with What I’m Writing last week, mainly as I was, well, writing! I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants on the blog recently, always running to catch up, so I’ve been trying to schedule more, to take the pressure off during the week.
The thunder crashed again, reverberating around the old house. She flinched, enjoying the fierceness of the storm but shocked by the volume and intensity. Now I’ll find out if the roof leaks, she thought wryly.