A Writer's Diary - Part 2: The Text
The fact is, I don’t know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn’t collapse when you beat your head against it. - Douglas Adams Her gaze dragged past the reflections in the window pane, and sloped in a zigzag across the greening lawn outside. It wasn’t an exploring kind of gaze; it was a reluctant but helpless kind of gaze, fighting not to be drawn towards whatever it was that it was drawn towards. Because let´s face it: It wasn’t drawn towards anything in particular. No; her gaze was always drawn towards something ; a lot of the time that something was just a great big pile of nothing . Nonetheless, it was always drawn . And it was odd, really, for her eyes were so tired. She wanted nothing to do with her eyes being drawn, not at all , yet still - here she was. It was greening outside. The trees had sprouted a little more vigor only since this morning, and the lawn was now less wither-y y...