I’m writing a story, I think.
Though he didn’t have the words to express it, a fact that frustrated him endlessly, Christopher was possessed by a deep sense of destiny. A sureness of his own terrific cause that, inexplicable as it was, gave him a more moving satisfaction than any other, and a haunting dissatisfaction too. For him, he was sure, the gears of industry turned, the rusted machinations of politics perservered, the great engines of the earth sputtered and started. For his joy, dawn stretched her rosy fingers, and for his pain the heavens cleft open and wept. In the curve of his jaw and the hollow tenor of his voice, Christopher believed one could find what made America brave, what had made Gatsby great, what made the stubborn stars shine on. All of this he would have said readily to anyone willing to listen, would have shouted and professed and cried, had he only the words.
I don’t have a handle on narrative prose whatsoever, and this is couple hundred degrees outside of my element. But I’m a firm believer that you can’t write anything really of value until you’ve written a huge amount of slush, so I might as well get started on my slush.
