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I just thought it would be useful to update my writing style according to 750words.com. More to come tomorrow.  Overall, it seems that I finding myself a little less self-important, which may be due to my Spanish classes or other recent events. However, you might notice that I am getting more positive. That seems weird for me to even care about being happy/optimistic, but I find it very important that I learn to show my optimism than to just think about hope. Have no doubt, though, that I am still sarcastic and cynical. And according to the charts, I am angry as well. Maybe this is the kind of angry that wants light a fire under someone's ass, so to speak. Maybe I want to burn down the world just so I can save. Or maybe I am just anxious to continue working on Excluded so you guys can all read the novel. Finally.   I believe the next two charts can speak for themselves. I would like to mention, though, how my concerns have become less about death. Now the anaylzing system used for these charts has its limitations. If I use words that relate to death, or the word death itself, it things I am worried about death. For instance, this explanation would read as me being worried about death. However, happier words reflect mentality as well as other emotions. My point: Should a horror writer be losing concern for death? Something worries me there. Have no fear. I will continue to scare you. Or rather, I like to just interest you, the reader. If you escape into one of my novels, I consider that an accomplishment on my party. I am not here to revolutionize the world. But as long as I am still writing, that will probably happen naturally. "I will trend-send and mentality bend you." (Name the quote without Googling it.) 
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AboutFear, focus, and the future. C.M. Humphries talks about writing, horror, and whatever. Archives
October 2018
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Her sharp nails clench my wrist and pull me closer, until I can see my reflection. From my forehead to the bridge of my nose, my flesh melts away, developing into a dark abyss much like her own.
Akin to a knife in my chest, a stabbing pain flares my lungs with each rapid breath. I spring upright in my bed at the sound of a loud rapping. My heartbeat echoes around the room; the sound is thumping in my eardrums, as if it derives from my head.
Akin to a knife in my chest, a stabbing pain flares my lungs with each rapid breath. I spring upright in my bed at the sound of a loud rapping. My heartbeat echoes around the room; the sound is thumping in my eardrums, as if it derives from my head.
Deep breaths through my nostrils, deep into my lungs, and out of my mouth, I focus in on silencing my erratic sounds. My heartbeat becomes nothing more than an unfamiliar drum in the background. I hear the knocking again.
READ MORE: "Facade"
