Yesterday I read a chapter I'd written about ten months ago. Appalled would not be too strong for what I felt. My writing clearly reflected the amateur that I am. I knew exactly how to fix my errors. I'd described the setting in such a way that it screamed "I'm describing the setting now." I wrote qucikly as if someone would read it before I could correct the error of not integrating the setting into the action. Then I put down the pen in satisfaction. Done. In ten months from now, if I'm lucky, I'll be appalled at what I'm writing now. And so the progress proceeds and hopefully, one day, I will love the words I've written regardless of their age.
At this moment I am working on making my writing invisible to the reader, bringing the story so vividly to existence that it becomes reality. I don't want my words to even whisper there is a writer behind them, grouping them in some special order, working with the sounds and smells they call forth. There are some rules that help me learn this, like always say swordfish, not fish; and pay attention to the sounds of words. Pearls and pewter; bark, bulimia, banker; and putrid, rotted, rubbish--they all convey more than their definition. Put them together in the right way and they'll sing a melody as well. A light jingle, a baroque, a symphony--what do I want? At this moment I envy the poets, that lovely and perfect choice of words, a way of seeing the world with an artist's eye.