Truly, I should know better. But when do I ever catch on until it is almost too late?
For the past week or two I’ve done little by way of writing–rewriting, that is–because my thoughts are coming in poetic lines and so I’ve laid aside the fiction I was working on, falsely believing it was a separate thing. But poetry belongs in writing sentences as much as in broken lines of thought that Word for Windows screams are not grammatically correct. Maybe it is just a rebellious mood that makes me want to see the red and green squiggles of disapproval, and that is what keeps me there.
But stories need the pictures, or imagery is the proper term. And stories can go further and deeper faster than without them. And, pull the unsuspecting reader in. This mood I’m in then, is just the right and perfect time of year, and in no way detrimental, just as the snow returns in March. So back to the seasons I must go.
(Note: After writing here in Typepad, then copying back to Word, there’s not a single squiggle in sight to excite me. How mundane.)
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology