I love when story, seemingly already written on an ephemeral cloud, comes to us. The words pour down and we lay them on the page. They are marshaled in divine design.
It feels like magic, like power. This is genius and, we, the mere conduits.
There are those stories that drag us pathetically across the calloused black top, burn our fingers and crook our spines, harboring a shadowed threat of what it might become – one day.
We are not magic or power or even conduit, we are witch and warlock and cursed all at once, damned to live an obscure existence sucking on green m-n-m’s and cold coffee.
One moment sailing the skies, the next scouring gutters for unredeemed inspiration.
It’s a writer’s life.
Not for the weakened soul.