When I was young and naive I was so desperate to become the writer I dreamed about that I wrote like a bunch of other people.
My words were not my own, the rules I blindly obeyed acted like a cage.
I wrote like one or two of my favorite authors, depending on the day. Sometimes I’d write with the kind of brevity only Hemingway was capable of, other times I’d struggle to craft the kind of complex sentence structure only Gabriel Garcia Marquez could manage to create.
After all, my first novel was sort-of like Great Gatsby, but from the perspective of a narrator much akin to Nick, hopelessly in love with a woman he could never have.