Walger's blog: "Writing"

I am auditing a couple of online writing courses. But the problem with auditing them is I don't get feedback. So I figured I would post some here and see if anyone would like to critique it. Some will be exercises in certain areas, like sensual writing (as in connecting to the senses, not sexual), others will just be practice in describing people, that may be used in future works, and some develop into short stories. If there is anything that you like and works, whether it be the whole piece or sentence or even turn of a phrase. Also if there is something that doesn't work let me know that also. Hint, "it sucks" is not helpful. What sucks about it, what don't you like, and things like that is helpful. With that said this is a piece I wrote to work on sensual descriptions.

"There was a special place in his heart for good old fashioned diners. The kind of place where the décor and the plates aren’t homogenized into a consistent theme as if it was part of a movie set. Angie’s was such a place. If one was observant, which he wasn’t, the first thing that would be apparent is all the signs hung on the wall. The signs included a large wooden one touting a company that once made carriages, except if the company ever did exist, it never occupied a piece of Torrington, contrary to its assertion that it did. A large photo of a dirt paved main road with horses trodding down it was a much more accurate depiction of the areas past, despite making no claim to that honor. Next came all the little signs that might be seen in a home expressing the necessity of coffee, the price of whining and siting various homey sayings. The decorations didn’t stop there, with flowers and seasonal displays on the counters and shelves adding to the array. The one consistent thing was that nothing was consistent about it. The designer of large chain restaurants would have spasms seeing how scattered the adornments were. Yet without even recognizing it the hodge-podge worked for David. It called to him in a way that Applebees, 99 or even The Cheese Cake Factory never could. This place was real. Everything about it said so. There were mismatched coffee cups and the even more disparate creamers, each one different in size and shape. But compared to the syrup dispensers, the creamers looked like a matched set. For these were not only different sizes and shaped, but the handles boasted different colors or no color at all. There was a red handled one that had a long arcing curve. The blue handle was almost circular, and the aqua decided to place itself somewhere in between, just to show it too was unique. The different lids, handles, shapes and sizes all cried out “not fake, not fake, not fake.” And unlike any sign that would flash such a thing, it was absolutely true. If Dave was a more contemplative man he might have noticed that the jumble of decorations and tableware was a perfect reflection of the customers. There were the people from the neighborhood escaping their little apartments for a coffee or a donut, on their way from or to the nearby package store. There was the rich customers that seemed to take their own ownership of the place by pointing out what needed to be adjusted so it was more to their liking. They all mixed together with the old men, young couples, groups of friends, strangers alone, workers in their grimy, greasy work clothes, or others in their cleanly pressed suits. None of that mattered to Dave. Or at least it didn’t at first. He came for the food, which was as real as the décor. He came for the home fries, a lost art in this area, rediscovered here. Not the mushy precooked tasteless potatoes served elsewhere. These were hearty potatoes, firm, keeping the earthy snap that they grew with, enhanced by the cooking and perfect seasoning, and accentuated by the salt and grilled onions. They ranged in color from golden brown to deep brown, but were all crisp on the outside and dense on the inside. Made like every place used to make them, before they decided that speed and convenience mattered more. That was what caught his attention, the home fries. But it expanded to their specialty omelets and pancakes, then further on to their lunches. Before he knew it he was addicted. He needed his daily dose of their breakfast or lunch. But as much as the food, he needed the people more. The mismatched flow of life that came through the door perfectly different from each other and the staff, yet perfectly matched to make life bearable.