if this wasn’t my life, I would travel. perhaps by train, to the Mediterranean, or maybe by plane, to the Caribbean. only bringing a change of clothes, my passport and my straw hat, buy the rest when I get there. a small hotel, a few rooms, with white curtains billowing in the wind, overlooking the beach, the sea, the sky. coffee in a small cup while the sky first becomes rosy pink, then blue and finally black and full of the stars of the universe. the sea breeze rustling the leaves, growing still. the night air is filled with the heavy perfumes of flowers and I would just sit there, watching the night sky and then go lie in the big bed with the white sheets. this would be my life, if this life wasn’t mine.
I’ve started writing my novel again; maybe it’s being back at school that’s given me all these ideas. What I have so far is almost half a book, it needs more detail and some fleshing out and maybe some more drama before I can say it’s finished. A friend has been reading what I have so far and has been asking me questions about why and who and where, making me see that some things weren’t as clear as I thought they were. She also pointed out that one of my characters does nothing for the story. He just tags along, saying hardly anything and I realized that I put him in only because I wanted the boys and girls to be an equal number. So now, when I’m rewriting and adding he’s been cut out. I killed him. Well, maybe not anything as drastic as that, but he’s gone from the story. This changed the story some (duh), and it’s now better. There’s more focus on my main character and those closest to her. After dragging myself to the gym today I now really feel the need to get started with
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