• 8:29 PM, Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Aptitude, vocabulary and all that shiat does not matter when you come down to it.

Writing, admittedly, gives a more colorful and extensive portrayal when the author drops bombastic bombs but that in itself doesn't create a story that etches its footprints deep within the reader's heart. I've read enough stories to know.

A shallow story, no matter the seemingly frabjous terms, remains shallow.
A deep and fulfilling story on the other hand hits you in all the right spots.

The dialogue, neither rich nor complex.
The action, hardly even making itself known.

The atmopshere, so quaint, clutches at your heartstrings.
In fact, the most fulfilling stories often use radical terms.

There's no word you need to check in the dictionary, no awkward fumbling as your mind processes the sentences your eyes rake in and it leaves you satisfied as an after shower. You feel the action despite the absolute lack of such because the dialogue packs just that sheer amount of punch. You feel it isn't a desperately made plot because there is no plot, only a real-life conversation that sends you into springtime.

Too many words, innumerous combinations.
That's how the stories are born, and breathe.

I'm envious, damn it.
So envious.

'Cause that just means I'll never be as good at writing.
Unless I get out there and mingle and get to know life.

Those who truly know life, they write the best stories there can be.

No matter how many words I learn, how I sharpen my grammar, I'm merely pitting myself against an impeccable wall of futilty. It hurts, because I firmly believe this is the only niche I have that I'll throw myself so wholeheartedly into. It hurts.

God, it really hurts.