I know. I know. I probably should have forced myself to type it out onto the computer instead of handwriting it, but Bad Guy won’t let me tell the story in any other fashion.
It really hasn’t been 1,876,531 days. Some days it feels it though. It feels like this is the only story I’ve ever written in my life, for the entirety of my life to date. Other days words simply flow out of the pen.
Telling this story is cathartic. The more I write, the more I relax. The more I relax, there is more creativity.
The ending is visible in my imagination and the material is heading towards it in the right lane.
When I read over some of it I can’t help but laugh a little at myself: There are jottings on several pages of notes, questions, answers. I love them! I am not really having to stop writing and write down a note somewhere, just move a little on the page and write the pertinent note. There are mark throughs, scratch outs, and curlycues to wipe out words and sentences. It is a messy manuscript, but it is the first manuscript in a very long time the enjoyment of writing it hasn’t faltered. Yes, my hand gets tired and it hurts, and it is a much slower process, but this is helping get it down.
I’ve sat at the kitchen table like I did when I was a teenager and writing my heart out. The same mountains are outside the window. It isn’t the same as when I was a girl; it is familiar and needed though.
In looking out onto the mountains I have seen them virtually take a deep breath when a storm came breaking the heatwave. Their green went from dull to brilliant and have kept that brilliance.
Maybe this is where I’m supposed to be after all.