Here I am, sliding cat-like into the back row, trying to avoid being noticed, self-conscious in the presence of all you proper writer types.
I'm just a man (I'm sorry), that's all, trying his best to be good at something – just the one thing: only one thing, please. And, that thing, I've decided, is writing. Writing has always appealed; yet, it's also been illusive.
I'm getting there, success or death, but I need a push, I think. A helping hand held out by one who cares. I need encouragement from others that know.
I read almost solely in the hunt for the perfect sentence. That sequence of words so carefully crafted to communicate fully the thoughts of the author.
Stories are nice, those not of this earth, of the human body, its soul and the history of things. But, honestly, weirdly, my literary lusting can be so quenched by an article detailing the drying of paint if its author has crafted beautiful sentences.