So, my flawless drug, delirium, has once again transformed my writing. I had endeavored to write a vignette about a man rescuing a woman. It's all I had perseverated on all damn day; the "I wish I were a hero" mentality. Well, six pages into the original and there was hardly any progression, much less resolution, and the plot seemed to be there in proverbial theory. I was trying too hard to be "cool" and "gritty," but then I realized that a dropped ice cream can also be described as such. Delirium turned "James grimaced at the mess he had wrought with his own hand. The dying man bled covertly into the brackish water. He said something profoundly cliched. He began to feel dizzy as the plot began to die... bla de bla." into:
Thrumming through the underbrush, drumming up some gushed blood from one or three gashed and garish toes. The thunderous ineloquence of hordes of bleach white pelicans gave no favor in his dying throes. His bravery was obvious, though others were oblivious, not knowing nettles nestled in their souls. He crashed through men with no forethought, their injury by themselves wrought, while he had only one quite selfless goal. Though bullets ripped apart his limbs, last living lung did heave within, and in that heaving hurled the girl into two arms unrolled. "I'll not forget," exclaimed the dame, aboard a ship that bore her name, "I'll love him though I knew not of his role."
It's like comparing something vomited forth from Michael Bay(splosions) with a short film from the man from Pithy Tragedy Island. It needs some polish, sure, but so does your wife. I'll probably title it "The Secretary's Daughter" or "Operative." I may even title it with an unfamiliar term. Reading the pseudo-ballad, I can't comprehend when I began to think that the original mess was acceptable. The poem version is not only lyrical and fun to read or even say, but has a beginning, middle, and end. Those three are crucial from what I remember of grade school. That and "stop putting glue on Tommy's face!"
