I am a person who has neither read many literary works nor speaks English as a native language. For a while now, I have become interested in writing and would like to get better on it. Therefore, I figured there may be no more suitable approach than to just start writing. However, I would like to ask if anyone who has read much literature can assess my ability to create stories in English, and maybe if someone who has succeeded (without defining what this means) in writing can recognize themselves in the situation described in this question?
The text I provide below is obviously too short to give a deeper analysis, and the purpose is not to obtain specific critique on it, but I hope experienced readers can, based on my circumstances, identify the potential of someone who almost never read a complete book, and hence has nothing to relate to.
His body is blistering and his eyes are gritty as he pours a cup of coffee. Brown bubbles shine at the surface and lay like an irregular foam at the inside of the cup, which is white ceramic with summery floral patterns. A drop smears and lands on the top of the hand, which, innocently, did not participate in the pouring. The slightly bent beam of coffee leaves the center of the black liquid and approaches the edge of the coffee cup. When it’s near the edge it has nowhere to go. As it splits in half, the black liquid encircles the bottom of the cup, uniting ceramic with solid oak. When he reaches for a cloth, the innocent hand decides to take revenge. In the leap, it touches the top of the cup. The cup wobbles, and the enclosed circle of coffee turns into a puddle. A primal scare sounds in the gloomy apartment. He is at the breaking point. Staring at the brown puddle, yesterday’s events spring to mind as the neurons in his brain awakens. The memories are coming back. He is no longer looking at a brown puddle. He stands in a lake, with water up to his knees. A boat gobs against the soggy edge where grass is mixed with clay. His hands begin to hurt as he looks down and realizes that he has clinched them so hard that they are white. Quickly, he looks up and grabs the cloth. He wipes the coffee on the bench, and then the bottom of the cup. He thinks for himself that it has happened again.
A simple answer would be to start reading more books to learn how to write, which I'm motivated to do, but it would take a long time for me to get a sense of what is good and bad literature.
A hypothesis I have is that if a person has some talent to tell stories (I definitely do not claim that's the case for me), it may be an advantage not to have been "colored" by other writers' linguistic expressions.