A hint of white cotton hiding in the shadows of her thighs.
I wish I could write like that. Well, I did write that, but it’s just a sentence hanging in the void. There is no context. It’s just an image in search of a scene in search of a story. A non sequitur longing for a sequence. An orphan dreaming of a parent’s hug.
Seeing the words of an image, turning a phrase, this isn’t writing. Writing is taking these bits and pieces that come your way and weaving them together to form the whole. This is where I am currently failing. The images come fast and furious. They overwhelm and some of them are good and beautiful but they are images and phrases living on virtual 3×5 cards in my mind lacking the thumbtacks and twine to give them life.