I decided to go downtown to get a little writing done yesterday. When I go to a coffee-shop to write, though, things come out in spurts: not really a coherent narrative but just whatever farts out of my head. Thoughts, character sketches, playing around with words and phrases that pop into mind.
Some of the better ones (with minor tweaking for clarity):
Bloody blades of a story. I can see the nakedness of your thought before I moved into your sphere. Young collegiate women with their schoolwork, giggles barely rising through the music; an electric throwback. With what should I keep myself entertained?
The fog of my own thoughts and insecurities. It takes a special person to able to cut through this. If you can manage this, and make me a little more human when I interact with you, you’re in. (The sky turned grey). I’ve grown to realize these aren’t flukes, but not something to take for granted.
The cars pass by, red tail lights streaking past the stationary glow of each sign across the street. Several stories above, a crane teeters limp – at rest.
Grace was always looking at people with a lack of patience and an interrogative stare – as if she demanded that your returning her gaze clarified what the fuck it was you wanted.
Cha cha Charlie – Waiting for the groove to end.
I decided that I’m actually going to participate in NaNoWriMo this year; I really want to get my writing discipline back, even if it is just to vomit words onto a page for me to pick coherent nuggets out of later.