Greetings from the mountains of Asheville, N.C.
When I wake up in the morning, the mountains in the distance are hidden by mist. But as the fog burns off, they begin to make their appearance. Solemn and stately, adding dignity just by watching me as I watch them.
It would be a pretty nice place to write stately prose. Ponder the meaning of life and the universe, the transience of man and the permanence of the mountains. Except in geological times, where it is the mountains that are transient.
Heavy, man. If only I were Emerson. Or John Donne, perhaps.
No regrets. I am who I am; I write what I write.
My characters would more likely look at the mountains, begin to ponder their immortality, immediately get distracted by a cloud that looks like a bunny, recall that time that the Easter Bunny brought them stale chocolate because their mother always bought up chocolate at the after-season specials and stored it away and then forgot it was there for a year or two. Make the philosophical leap that, what the hell, compared with chocolate they were practically immortal. And pour themselves a drink to celebrate.
The first couple of false starts I made trying to write a novel, I wanted to write stately prose. An effort doomed to failure, fortunately. The world is a far better place without my maudlin attempts at literature added to the literary canon.
Imagine deciding that the noble albeit tragic figure Sir Kay, the original Don Quixote, needeth his story told, and producing 1400 pages of stilted prose in poor imitation of Cervantes? Then asking my friends to read it and tell me what they think.