I want to preface this entry by saying I don't believe I'm particularly good at writing. I don't believe I'm the kind of writer to be analyzed by academics and held in the same esteem as Faulkner or Hawthorne. I wish I was, I truly do, but most creatives are always apt to believe their work will be never respected. I do, however, believe I have some authority on what makes good writing. About a month ago my girlfriend and I were discussing some of the submissions I was review

The night conjured up strong winds. They came from the northeast and carried the scent of the ocean- a real ocean- up to the lips of the shore. The moon, a rotund will-o-wisp, was obscured by a fog that would settle down in a few hours. She called in the tide and the tide answered the moon with the scent of the sea washing across the sands. Across the beach ghost crabs scuttled in the ivory dark and somewhere amidst the rolling dunes the cackle of coyotes echoed back to the c