My Writing Life

My Writing Life.

As if my writing is separate from my life.  Pens, pencils, keyboards. All effective. Sometimes I edit, sometimes write quite deliberately.  When I’m really focused, but let go at the same time, a pad of paper with eyes looking out the window brings that intense, procreative feeling that I swear I’ll need every day for the rest of my life to be whole.

I pick up sticks from my yard, empty the dishwasher, walk my dogs, walk myself around the living room listening to music—dancing—and every thought I had that day spins together and works itself into resolution.

Sometimes so much I can’t hope to write it all down before I lose it forever.

In the morning, not awake, I shower, and my character from my half-done book stands in one spot, where she’s been for days, then suddenly churns into new actions, scenes, thoughts.

I jump from the shower and run to write down key words, phrases; fragments. I’ll remember without pens and pencils and keyboards until I worry, then stress steals the essence; and everything disappears.

Until my character thinks again.

Then I write. Always in irregular bursts; and never for very long.

But the truth is I never.

Stop.

Writing.

So, my writing life. My life. Is my life. 

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