On a grey-white fall day two years ago, I sat upon my bed, glanced out of the window, and stared, rapt in calm wonder at what I saw, jotting down meanwhile what I have posted below (slightly edited):
Towards evening, a white mist began to descend from the hilltops into the valleys, lending an ethereal mystique to the trees, which were great, fluffy clumps of deep green, burnt red, and rust yellow. Shrouded beneath the translucent veil of mist, they solemnly and mechanically swayed in the mild gusts that traveled by, over, and through them.
The clouds above were a pale, bright grey, reflecting an unearthly brightness onto the hills and valleys. In the wood glades and tiny fields stood coarse grasses of chocolate brown, orange-brown, straw-brown, lime and forest green, sticking up like pliable needles or feathers on a feather duster. Flowers frosty white and lemony yellow mingled with the grasses, as tokens of summer past, as forebodings of winter to come.
The fog grew thicker, and crept nearer...
To describe, to capture in writing such scenes as written above is a driving motivation that inspires me to write. To write vividly in beautiful English, to learn to see beauty around me, this is why I write.
But there are other reasons that inspire me, even more compelling.
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