Meme, day 29
Apr. 29th, 2010 07:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltd29. How often do you think about writing? Ever come across something IRL that reminds you of your story/characters?
I think about it all the time. If I'm not rehashing AIM scenes, I'm plotting new ones.
Anything and everything can make me think of writing or give me inspiration, from a deserted house or the state of the highway to a song on the radio.
I mean:
Once I did get on the road, I followed the directions very carefully. I did not want to get lost in the wilds of the Arkansas-Louisiana border.
Bobtails are easier to turn than a full rig, but still. I turned off the main state highway onto a numbered county road. My directions said it was fine.
It hadn't been used in a long time. The yellow stripe was faded to near invisibility and the grass grew over the broken edges of the road. No houses, no farms, nothing but trees and meadows lined the road. Every now and then, a bridge would take me over a broad cypress swamp. I could
smell the murky, stagnant water even over the air conditioning and the Spanish moss hung nearly to the eerie knees that poked through the scummy water. One patch of swamp was so thick and dense, and ran so long, that it was dark before I got out.
or
He made it as far as Greasy Corner, a crossroad where 50 and 149 came together. Years ago, there had been a couple little country stores. Now the kudzu choked the deserted buildings and the plywood over the door was long gone.
Places I've been and things I've seen.
Related Question:
is the title Dead Man's Wind really awful for a sexual horror novel about skeletal rapists?
I think about it all the time. If I'm not rehashing AIM scenes, I'm plotting new ones.
Anything and everything can make me think of writing or give me inspiration, from a deserted house or the state of the highway to a song on the radio.
I mean:
Once I did get on the road, I followed the directions very carefully. I did not want to get lost in the wilds of the Arkansas-Louisiana border.
Bobtails are easier to turn than a full rig, but still. I turned off the main state highway onto a numbered county road. My directions said it was fine.
It hadn't been used in a long time. The yellow stripe was faded to near invisibility and the grass grew over the broken edges of the road. No houses, no farms, nothing but trees and meadows lined the road. Every now and then, a bridge would take me over a broad cypress swamp. I could
smell the murky, stagnant water even over the air conditioning and the Spanish moss hung nearly to the eerie knees that poked through the scummy water. One patch of swamp was so thick and dense, and ran so long, that it was dark before I got out.
or
He made it as far as Greasy Corner, a crossroad where 50 and 149 came together. Years ago, there had been a couple little country stores. Now the kudzu choked the deserted buildings and the plywood over the door was long gone.
Places I've been and things I've seen.
Related Question:
is the title Dead Man's Wind really awful for a sexual horror novel about skeletal rapists?
