Ah, snow and writing mix well.
Snow while walking provides peace and serenity, muffling sounds as a I trudge. With little traffic, it's just me and my novel.
"Come together," I sing, following the Beatle's take and not one of the many covers. I'm singing to the story lines and characters. Come together, dear children. Let us finish! A chapter was added, more was edited. Now I'm writing three of the final four chapters in parallel. Sometimes the words geyser out so sharp and clear that I struggle to keep up. At those points I want to type fast, fast, fast. But I can't go fast enough. It's all happening at once and I'm flashing from scene to scene, character to character, thoughts to thoughts.
It's such a rush, though. It's like --
Finishing the longest run you've ever done.
The glow of sex in the aftermath.
Scoring a touchdown, hitting a home run, stealing a base, winning a wrestling match.
It's like selling a story, discovering a friend or solving a problem.
It's heady and intoxicating, an addictive elixir that demands more be done, more, more, more.
"With a rebel yell, she cried, more, more, more."
Sorry, that's me, free-associating my way through thoughts, words, emotions.
Free associating through life, free wheeling through words, writing like crazy, writing like crazy.
Causes Michael Seidel Supports
Kiva, Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, Propublica.org, Doctors Without Borders, GreaterGood.com