keep only a few lines. I get bored of riffing, ranting, setting the scene, it gets chopped as I read through. I’m not sure you have to do that, give more than a sentence or two on the room, the face or life before. I’m drawn to the fat-trimmers, exposition and backstory all sliced, digressions guillotined. These posts are my meanderings, the story I’m trying to write is a surgical strike, sudden and jarring as a shout in the night. In, out, gone before the reader can look over their shoulder and shudder. I walk the riverways trying to lay it out in my thoughts, most of it still just out of reach, hidden behind the curtains of willows, rushes and dual-carriageway embankments. Spooked by it. My as yet unformed familiar, always at the edge of the scene.
