I’ve been lost for days trying to write about light. I can’t remember when the idea came to me but it’s been there for a while, brewing in my head. I catch words and phrases, I keep waiting for it to reveal more of itself to me, but it’s just smoke and shadows.
I see greatness though. I see greatness in a lot of things much too early. I see the potential for greatness and that comes with pressure. I feel as if the story is relying on me to make it great and I don’t know if I can meet its expectations.
A tormented process, writing is. All the time, words are coming to me, half-developed, asking me to set them free. I mull over them, like an overprotective mother, wanting to keep them contained until they’re more ready. When will that be? How much more ready? Then I can feel the words slipping out of my mind and that scares me. There’s a brief window between “getting there” and “gone” and my timing is never perfect.
How much do I love it though, the writing, the words, the process. More than anything else in the world, it sets me free, it enables me to breathe. In that moment of frantically catching the words as they reach their peak and feeling like the Muses themselves are smiling at me, I am whole.
So I shall keep writing, for as long as the words will have me.