Some days, I feel I can reach above my head and pull a story, fully-formed, out of thin air. Other days, I slog through the mud and mire of writer's block, hunting the elusive word. When I capture it, I will slay it and mount it on my trophy wall of paragraphs.
I love the way words, like clay, can be molded in the writer artist's mind. I used to try building towering works of majestic splendor. Now I'll settle for, "that's practical... and kinda purty, too."
Don't watch, now. I probably look a little silly trying to catch the words that flit about me like a swarm of cotton candy butterflies. But when I catch one or two, they will dance about in my story, sprinkling bits of magic over everything.
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