I'm in love with writing. Everything about it is delightful. And I love to read. Read words so cleverly composed that they trickle and gel to create a watercolour that undulates and flows, flirting with my emotions and shamelessly seducing my senses. Words are magical and intoxicating, frivolous and deep. Words can be what you want them to be. Pain and anguish or light and free. The writer chooses the words and their order, it is for the reader to plunge into those words and to be carried by the stream.
I’m in love with writing. I love to write short stories and epic adventures, articles and reviews. My mind flutters over each idea and, as a butterfly gently drinks from a daisy only to be distracted by the black-eyed Susan and the columbine, I drift between my characters and their stories, changing tack in the breeze, never staying too long but always moving on. Of course, this flighty activity means I rarely finish a project. I have pages of works in progress or finished bar the final edit, but another character will call, claiming ownership on my limited time and my fluttering mind.
I’m in love with writing. Everything about it is delightful: from conversing with my characters to dreaming up plots. I fall in love with my creations, argue with them and cry. But I never stay too long for other characters await the brush of my mental wings.
I’m in love with writing. A clean piece of paper and an ink pen seduce. The virginal sheet sits patiently waiting, the ink pen poised ready to leave its mark. The fusion of the two can create a beautiful piece of prose or something dark and sinister. It is for me to decide. I submit to the fluttering in my mind and let the thoughts take control of the tool. They tumble out onto the page, trembling and deliberating, gaining confidence and gelling, creating a union so tight I feel heady.
At last the beating wings are spent and for a while my mind is still. But soon a character will call and the wings softly stir. I’m in love with writing.