Life as Literature

As a writer (okay, so I haven't been getting much writing done lately, as I've been doing busy work to make money!), I often look at life as a source of material. I need to finish a long term writing project, rather than starting yet another one, but I just had an experience that inspired a passage.

For starters, this passage isn't totally true; I take a bit (sometimes a chunk would be a more accurate word) of real life and then go from there. Sometimes it turns out well, other times not so much. I think this one came out okay. If you disagree or have a comment feel free to share it with me.

Here goes:

She sat on the bed, arms wrapped around her calves, face resting against her bent knees. The only sounds I could hear were those of a wounded animal. She either didn’t notice or care that I was there, watching her exhibit the raw emotions only heartache and despair can cause.

“How long can a person do this?” I thought to myself as she let forth another low, guttural moan. It was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, followed by a shuddering sob that again turned into the low moan. I wondered if I should try to comfort her. Would she welcome my touch or feel it was an intrusion into what was clearly a powerful experience for her.

I retreated from the room, hoping not to disturb whatever catharsis she may be achieving through her ritual of grief.