Especially the imagery in the first few paragraphs that talks about how it feels to write.
I have a frenemy. Her name: Descriptive Writing. She is difficult to figure out, elusive and slippery, and sometimes I get the feeling that she despises me. At times she’s willing to have a heart-to-heart chat over coffee, only to rush off mid-sentence for no apparent reason. But then there are times when she bares her entire soul, crying out for a friend to listen, and I forget all about yesterday, when she mocked me as I stuttered, unable to summon one word to paint on my blank canvas.
But when I get her to talk, I savor the rush of adrenaline, the heart-pounding satisfaction, of being able to see the splashes of color begin to fill the white space, the serene and chilling sounds whizz, whirr, and whistle past my ears, the perfumes of my imagination drift into my nostrils.
And I get taken away to faraway lands, where seedy politicians…
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