With a brief apology for yesterday’s language, both in my misuse of the word prosaic and my proper use of a four-letter word, I offer nothing other than honesty in feelings and admitting when I’m wrong, fiction where appropriate, and realities of life as seen by me. Spinning often gets marked with my first reaction unless I can manage to hold things together and within until calm.
While there’s much more to this writing thing, it’s a learning process and each word that moves from the mind onto a readable, shareable form is best allowed its freedom when first born. Raising the words to be upstanding, self-sufficient and smart is the loving work of the parental author after the orgasmic conception of the idea and the pains of presenting that new life has been accomplished. If we allow their natural development and guide them gently, they will decide themselves whether to be essays, poetry, fiction or non-fiction when they are ready to stand on their own.
Living is writing, writing is living.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology