where the writers are
The Writing Day

Another fabulous writing day.  

The words pour out of me.  I finished one story, edited, worked on a second, added a thousand words to it and edited it, and started a third, another thousand words. It's like I've been trying to open some vault and now, suddenly, it's been open and all those stories are in there, coming out.  

Of course, they're not published. I just write and type like crazy.  It's like a dream.  It reminds me of Ray Bradbury telling of a similar time when he wrote and wrote, then sent off stories and received two acceptances on the same day, a month later.  

Each of the stories are different, different characters, different voices and plots, even different genres - or sub-genres.  

Buts exist, though.  I'm not working on my novel submissions and publications as I want and planned.  Looking back through computer files, I've written like crazy in other months and  years.  There's been a lot of false starts, lots of settings and character sketches, beginnings without endings, endings missing beginnings.

Writing is a progression.  I think, as a writer, I'm searching for understanding.  Everthing is a loose string, and I pull them to understand what's on the other end.  Sometimes I get to the other end, sometimes not.  A lot of times, I'm not satisfied with what I find on the other end.

As others have said, you can't perfect life or writing, you just try to master each, and have a little fun and learn some as you try.  It's a lifelong obsessionl, a perpetual effort.

So that's what I'm doing:  trying.

And I'm learning.

And having fun.

I'm pleased with the writing life. It could be better but it's a welcomed refuge.