For no traceable reason, no magic thread that I can rewind to its source, no breadcrumb trail to follow back home, I have begun again to write.
A full page–a good beginning for one who starts with opening lines that end in perhaps a paragraph of inspired story. I have an idea where this is going, but I’m not sure where it began, and then again, it may change when I sit down again–need to sit down again–to tell some more.
Alas, this story is not one of three I need for a deadline that hisses at me late at night when I try to pull the cover of unconsciousness over a weary mind. I cannot force myself to write a story, I cannot ask the question what happened then? and come up with an answer that sounds either logical, or non-logical but intrigueing or any answer more than I don’t know.
So this is good, this nudging of my instincts. The keyboard feels right this time. I feel right.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology