Writing

You know what, I love writing. I love crafting words into evocative phrases, descriptions that evoke an image of exactly what I want the reader to imagine.

For instance, I just wrote this tonight:

She then turned and began to pace, wringing her hands. As she paced, she made barely a sound, each step on the ball of her foot, her hell barely hitting the deck except when she used it as the fulcrum of her turn.

And that's not it. In the same RPOL post, I also wrote this:

Melissa cocked her head to the side, her face scrunched up in thought, her eyes looking up into her eyebrows, and her teeth lightly biting the inside of her left cheek.

I don't know if the images I want to convey actually come across, but I try.

He sat upright in his chair, legs slightly crossed, his left root resting atop his right. His knees were far apart, farther apart even than the considerable width of his rotund stomach. His arms rested atop that stomach, reaching out and forwards, the edge of his laptop biting into his wrists. His fingers hovered above the keys, left thumb above the trackpad, right thumb above the space bar, his right ring finger occasionally reaching up and to the right for the delete key, the pinky curled up and out of the way. His face was slack, expressionless, his eyes focused on the screen before him, eyes scanning the screen as he typed, flitting from the keys to the blinking cursor and back. He wrinkles the left side of his mouth, thinking, but saying nothing. He composes the words in his mind as he writes them, going back and forth on the phrasing, deleting and rethinking the words as his fingers delete and retype the same.