Have My Soul

Fitzgerald, you can have me. Every bit of me is yours.

He felt the young lips, her body sighing in relief against the arm growing stronger to hold her. There were now no more plans than if Dick had arbitrarily made some indissoluble mixture, with atoms joined and inseparable; you could throw it all out, but never again could they fit back into atomic scale. As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes (Tender is the Night, 155).

How can words be so lovely?
I don’t understand the art to that extent.
Words shouldn’t be able to make people feel like that scene made me feel.
That’s too much power. Too much.

It steals my heart and soul. All of me..gone.
But I figured it out. I figured out how to arrange words to create beauty.
Ready? Just write and write and write and write and write and write. Buy notebooks in bulk and fill them up.
All of them.
Then throw them away and start again.
Over and over and over until it’s beautiful.

But don’t ever try to write like someone else. Write like the voice in your head speaks. And make sure that voice is beautiful. Describe the scene in front of your eyes as you see it, however that might be. Just do it.
Oh my goodness, I’m overwhelmed with the amount of crap I must write before I can vomit descriptions like Mr. Fitz can. 

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