Early in those formative years as I started learning about life, I knew I wanted to write. There was only one solution to my desire to write. It had to be the foundational moment of conception. I’d have to write the real content of my heart.
Words appeal to me.
From the beginning the shape of words, the actual writing of the words meant something. I wasn’t sure what, but I spent hours writing words, one at a time until I got them down just right. I knew I needed to put the words on paper in perfect script. There were times I’d write one word for hours, just working the penmanship and writing that one word until it looked perfect between the lines.
Stringing words together.
After one word became perfect, I’d find another and string them together to formulate a thought. On rare occasions when the words became rhymes or poetic, I’d share them. But more often, I’d simply write them in my journal. I’d write one word at a time in perfect script into my journal, acknowledging the whole value of each stroke of my pen. The words adjoined to make a perfect thought, a sentence with value unto themselves.
Poetic license was born.
During a particularly long winter, I began arranging words around formative thoughts that described my favorite time of year. I’d write one word after another until I’d described the picture in my mind. During this time, words developed function and form, beyond the perfect script of the pen. They became poetic pictures of my life.
Plots thicken and jel.
Once I’d begun to write one scene, the rest of the plots began to jel and thicken in my mind. Delightful events escaped my pen, flying across the paper in words mingled with penmanship, guided by the write one, me. The story became real, living and vivid in words kept in check only by the time to place value between sentences and edged into focus, chiseled by the write one.
Characters were born.
Beyond the scenes, deep in the emotional connection of description, characters breathed life into the story. The write one expanded into creation and gleaned introduction to the spirit of inspiration, allowing the characters to flow, exist and live. The write one knew them. They were born of desire and need. Characters developed where none had lived before.
Daunting danger and mystery arose.
Out of the depths, I wrote the write one with daunting danger. Mystery arose and existed in havens of gilded pleasure and escape. Did the story line appear before the character or is the character living the storyline. Only the write one knows. Only, the write one knows…
Okay – so, I know this is literary prose at its very worst, but… The words escaped my finger tips, drilled into the white screen and appeared before me. I could hit delete… But, the words have a life of their own – and the write one knows.