And then there’s me:
She looked like sunlight on the water, warm and cold at the same time, eyes like whiskey and hair like ice, a too-soft cardigan over a Metallica t-shirt and ink all over her fingers when she reached for the book in my hand. When she spoke, it was like listening to the ice crack under your feet as you slip through to the freezing depths, or the first chord in a rock song shredded out on the steel strings of an electric guitar.
“Please let go of my book. You’re gonna rip it.”
Are you a “can’t write dialogue” writer or a “can’t describe anything” writer