When I first started writing-Big pictures and broad, grand strokes.
I chose poorly in wanting to only write large life altering, grand moments. When they were few and far between, I invented them, poorly. Too much of what could have been written, shared and explored lost in an insistence on stark, filtered light.
Part of growing as a writer, I guess.
Now I prefer small frames and shades of gray.
Entire stories existing in a simple moment. Choosing the blue shirt because it matches the brown pants. Coming out of a river on a summer day, covered in muck. In the coffee shop, ordering dark roast. Pressing the bruise on my neck. The heaviness of the door when I walk out to get the paper. The beginning notes of a song. Smell of cinnamon rolls on a Saturday morning. Opening a window to let Autumn in. Driving alone at night, windows down, nowhere in particular.
I wish I could convey it better, at a more fundamental level.
I wish it mattered to you, only because you matter to me.
What sticks first goes unnoticed.