The writer’s mind flailed like a kitten in a fan belt. What could he do? He hunched over his typewriter keys; punching words like cold ice into the thin paper membrane. He’d been trying to give up this overblown style of writing for so long now. The worst thing? He had only planned to try it for one week; an experiment. Now he was addicted – he had a need – he was desperate. He had a need for the buzz of adjective strings, similes piled like glossy marbles. A short, pithy sentence left him with goosebumps – cold turkey – tied up in grammatical knots. He longed for froth of language to drag him under like so much flotsam on the tides of fate.
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