Someone graciously made a comment about one of the reality entries here and while I preen with temporary pride and satisfaction, I’ve come to look at it for what it means. Writing gets better with practice of writing, reading good writing, and living. Even the tarnish hides silver beneath in the lining of clouds.
Unmetaphorically speaking, whatever goes into us, whatever we absorb good and bad, can be used in our writing. In fact, we probably can’t keep it out, the understanding of not the feeling, but the reaction. The way we learn to hide within the words of a song, a poem, all stories with the reality just a thread that weaves through like a basket that holds it all together, too fragile to hold apples without it.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Your writing is silver and delicate tinted in peach and gold, as pristine as the early morning sunrise, no clouds and no tarnish here.