The world fades to a dull backdrop.

The words, in their poignancy-

are in control now. My fingers

are dancing to the beat and

painting images in Calibri font.

The characters vie for attention.

They demand to be expounded-

and expanded. To be fleshed.

To be MADE flesh.

I in my great narcissism believe

I am writing the story but

I am merely there for the ride.

The plot and its unfolding come

as a river to a ford and the ford

to the ocean and the ocean

is ever unbridled.

The romances and betrayals

and victories and defeats

are not those of marionettes

on jigging strings.

They are more.

They are spun by imagination

but made of something more-

solid-than mere whimsy.

Its own dimension-

a place of thought

and focus

and imminent creation.

I’ve found the beat to a song

that’s been playing since

I first put pen to paper

and I’m one with the rhythm

and in that sweet place the world

gets even duller because it cannot

hold a candle to the one

being born.

If I write a bunch I feel incredibly energised and can't stop. It's a wonderful feeling. To help me get in that flow I always read the last few chapters I wrote last time. This helps me get into character and feel the fabric of the story. Then I flex my fingers and begin to write a bunch.