I still don't like Scarlett, but Margaret Mitchell could WRITE.
I'm wondering if I can. Maybe. I don't know.
Sometimes. That's the answer. Sometimes I can write. Well, I mean. Write well.
I can write fast. But that doesn't mean it's good. And I've been blog quiet in the last month while I work on figuring out the difference.
I'm nearing the end of a manuscript that is going faster than anything I've ever done, but I'll edit for three times the length of time it took me draft it if it I can also make it better than anything I've done.
I want to honor storytelling, but I'm cursed with the ability to think of words almost faster than I can type them. And because they fall out so easily, I don't always shape them the way that I should. I have worried about form over content, but now I am looking, looking, looking. Picking apart and weighing and testing the sound of things.
I don't know if I have this in me. I don't produce art. But I am learning about craft.