I will never be a journalist.

I will never be a journalist. I am too much in love with superfluous description, an addict to poetic license, and horror of horrors, an ardent user of purple prose.

The austere world of journalism is far out of my reach, but I am not complaining, for I could never survive in such a rigid existence. I love nothing more than fitting together string upon ornate string of flowery, overindulgent prose. I feel sorry for the stern words that make up the tight fitting phrases of the daily newspapers; they look lonely and devoid of any hilarity or convivial fun.

For my novels this overbearing compulsion is marginally drawn in, mostly during the editing process (of which I am currently going through and realising that yes, indeed, I do need to cut some words!). I seriously think about each sentence and how it needs to sound, yet somehow, I end up carelessly throwing in excessive adjectives and surplus phrases which, eventually, come to a grisly demise at the power of my much loved delete key.

But here, as I type what comes from my head without so much as a sideways thought for standard language etiquette, I tend to gorge myself on written frippery for all who cares to see… and who cares?? Well I recently had an epiphony on that matter as well, but I’ll leave that for another day.

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~ by Alissa Anderton on October 5, 2009.

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