With not a cloud in the sky and 1053 words already on the page today, there’s a crisp freshness to today that makes everything seem possible.
Scenes are flying through my fingers, conversations leaping onto the page. Details are falling into place, subtle ones I hadn’t planned, to enrich the unfolding story. The process is pretty incredible, and sometimes I feel so sad for all those people out there who will never take pen to page (or fingers to keyboard) and experience the beauty of art taking shape.
Funny how sitting at a table, alone for hours, can feel so invigorating. I guess it doesn’t always feel invigorating; procrastinating all day feels more like blah, and even time spent writing can feel rather frustrating if all you’re left with is a string of wooden prose. But those productive days? The days where sparks ignite under your fingers? They’re part of what keeps me writing when things turn wooden.
Lucky me — time managed to stop while I wrote this, and it’s only 2:30 in the afternoon. Still plenty of time left to write more, run for a bit, and then relax. I guess I should get on to writing more, rather than just writing about writing more.