The general consensus of my mind has been that English teachers always make me over-analyze literature. We're forced to dissect it, and I would often let it ruin my own experience of the novel. Or poem, short story, essay, whatever. Just a few weeks ago, I had a teacher reiterate over and over again that every single word in a written work is chosen with care, specifically picked to convey a unique thought. And I called shenanigans. Every word? Not a chance.
But I'm sitting here, polishing the only story I've ever written and been mildly satisfied with, and I'm realizing the truth behind it all.
It's all in the subtleties, and my stomach turns when I think of someone skimming over this thing I've poured countless hours into, only to miss what I'm trying to say. To miss the feel, the message. There is no intrigue if I just come out and say it, that's how crappy novels are written. You have to discover it in the chipping paint, to peer through the keyholes and put the 299 pieces together to find the missing cardboard jigsaw. It's in the stolen glances, the memory of freshly brewed coffee's scent, snow drifting to the ground with quiet serenity, or the way she brushes the hair out of her eyes.
Don't dissect
Drink.
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