Some pleasures are just so evocative and I wish I could describe the lovely sort of crunch of the pink/red flesh. not too heavy, not too light, just wonderful. The juice. The cool wave of moisture. if I could capture that sensation bursting on the tongue in words, my writing would improve so much, and yet I'm stymied. I can't get the words to come, to tell that tiny story or the story of melting chocolate or the perfect cheese cake.
There are sensations that other people describe that you can see and feel and almost taste, that set your taste buds off so much you have to go do something about it. Lovecraft constructed creepy as did Poe, and they are the literary giants many of us look to today for shoulders to stand on and build more worlds of peculiar psychology and wonder.
I've written off and on since I was 12. Fan fiction. Original fiction. Non-fiction. I managed to complete and get accepted a thesis for my last degree. Poetry now and again, even once in spastic French. Yet when I sit down to do the revision class I'm taking it seems like every thing I've ever learned has dribbled out of my ear and left a mess on the paper or the electrons.
It's depressing. But it's also intriguing. I've a beta reader who loved the project. Didn't find much to carp about on plots and she's a stickler for good writing. So why does she enjoy the story, not find huge plot holes and yet the revision process I'm learning shows me all sorts of lack in the writing.
I hate this. But at the same time, there must be something. I guess.