I have a lot of fun with the stuff I write, and I believe that, most of the time, that fun transfers over to the reader. But I sometimes sit back and wonder why people read me. What is it about my stories that people enjoy? It’s a curious thing to me, a kid who once got his butt whupped often due to his proclivity for lying about the stupidest shit with the hopes of garnering reactions from people.
Today I wrote two contrasting sections in my current work-in-progress that highlight my style of writing. If you’ve never read my work, I think these two paragraphs, taken from different pages, sum up the tone of every Edward Lorn book on sale today:
Me: October fell like a curse upon the land. The trees of Bay’s End grew gray and skeletal. The bushes, bare of their green gloves, jutted from the dry earth like claws digging their owners from their graves. A stillness rested on its haunches, waiting to pounce on the unknowing community. For quiet breeds restlessness. Because mankind, for all its research into psychology, understands its aversion to silence as much as it understands its passion for drama. Which is to say, not at all.
Also me: She supposed she should have seen the escalation of his zealotry coming early on, but she’d ignored the signs because, as her girlfriends would have said, the dick was good.
See you guys later,