Much of writing comes from experience, even when entering into the fantasy or sci fi genres that preclude knowledge, but are based upon it and given free license to imagine beyond it.
But the simplest, most basic knowledge is often lost through possibly a "been there, done that" closure of the mind to admit more details in to fill out the form. This morning, I sat in darkness and listened to the wind more clearly, it said things I’d heard before I’m sure, but took for granted. Having just workshopped a piece about the wind that humanized (I know, the term is personified) him to have emotions and memories, I waited to hear what else he did and said.
He rattles doors in an attempt to find some shelter, just as we, perhaps, might do when he is in a dither and blowing things about. He whistles through the spaces between the walls and shrubs, and into corners…why? Is it a warning, or a bit of joy in respite or the racing of his pace? He makes, or so it seems, the rain fall harder, shifts its downward drop to left and right. A trick of his, I think, to kick up a notch by using tools like rain to make his anger more intense and visible–the one thing he has not, and yet can fool us into thinking that he does by what he stirs up in his path.
I know him better now, and better yet I will know this: There is always more to learn.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology