On the southernmost fringe of the tanglewood forest, beyond the kingdoms of men, in the midst of a purgatorial wasteland blighted with perpetual winter and savaged by endless storms, there stands an inn where the battle-lines between sanity and madness meet. Here, where soul-consuming demons walk freely as men, where nightmares parade their garish hues like common whores of the street, where only the boldest or the most benighted seek to tread, our story is enacted.*---------
See, that's why I don't write fiction. It never comes out like that. I have written fiction (not going to tell you where to find any of it) but, trust me, I am not even halfway up the mountain.
Challenged to write a short story by my very best friend recently, I succumbed, but nothing has improved with time. Oh, I have no trouble writing - the words seem to just bubble out with the least bit of priming - indeed the trouble is shutting off the flow - but those words still don't emerge as good fiction. When I see things written by Ken Armstrong or Catherine Sharp (not to mention my best friend) I tend to get intimidated and stop trying to write fiction.
Also, I don't take criticism well, so there's that. As a result, my occasional forays into the world inhabited by actual talented writers are few and far between.
Someday, maybe I'll be brave enough to let some of it see the light of day.
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*This fantastic piece of writing is on the blog called "Out of Ruins". The short story is Tanglewood. If you want an escape from Relax Max's amateur drivel, go read the story.
