It’s interesting to me that I find the following more humiliating than my account of stalkerish behavior.
Writing requires two talents: that of description and that of imagination. That the two may exist separately is clearly acknowledged; that they may only thrive together cannot be denied.
Story idea, An old man deals with the death of a friend much his junior.
Why are not movies and television shows literature?
Research Red Sea. Why is it called the Red Sea? I seem to remember it being related to the color of the aquatic plant life at some time in the year, but I’m not sure.
My proclivity for gnomic pronounciations is just embarrassing. It’s also interesting to think about how much harder finding out things like how the Red Sea got its name was back in the age before the web and Wikipedia (although young me was right in his vague recollections it turns out).
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