I very much would like to write; to sit at my laptop and create, or, better yet, at some table somewhere with a pen and notebook, scribbling away the lazy afternoon hours. I tell myself there isn't time, I procrastinate, and I waste time doing inconsequential things. Those are the lies. The truth of the matter is that I, like many before me, am afraid of failure. I am afraid that I will not write something that others will want to read. Take the title of this post for instance; I smelled blood. It catches the mind in a way, if we knew who, where, when and why...but we don't. We would know who if this was a line in the middle of a story, and perhaps it will be someday, but for now, let's assume 'I' is a character that we know.
As I stood in the cavern, I smelled blood. Better; at least we know where the character is, sort of. But still lacking. And I know it is lacking because I read...all the time. This is good for a writer, or so we are told, but can be a bane as well. I am constantly comparing my descriptions to those of much better writers than I. I look at faces every day and can't seen to describe them on a page. Oops, that is another post.
The dark, musty cavern held the aroma of freshly spilled blood, the smell unmistakable, firing the synapses of primal fear.
Okay, that isn't bad, I guess. A little work and it might approach this:
The place, by the by, was very stuffy and oppressive, and the faint halitus of freshly shed blood was in the air.
That is H.G. Wells, from The Time Machine (pg, 76, Airmont classic, 1964), and captured the scene rather well. The time traveler was in the cavern of the Morlocks for the first time and was scared. He just didn't know yet that he was scared, that came later.
Of course the object of this post was to stick with writing about writing, by proving to myself that if I take the time to edit my thoughts, I can write.