While winter is protesting its change into Spring, I'm working on the sequel to Sweet Tea and Southern Grace in the comfort of a padded office chair in a warm house with Banana Nut Bread in the oven. The timer says ten minutes left, and the aroma tells me that in exactly ten minutes, I'll be ready for a break from writing. The thoughts of a big slice with a glass of cold milk keeps me plodding forward..
Sometimes when I look at what I've written, I just see words on a page. My fingers are flying trying to capture the words ahead of me, not behind me - the words coming out of the mouths of my characters so fast that if I don't get them down on paper, they'll dissipate right there in front of me - and they won't come back no matter how hard I coax them. At that moment, everything thing behind them are just random words all thrown together, but when I finish with a page, a paragraph, a chapter or a book, the words are no longer just words. They're a story - a sense of accomplishment.
Good night, my friends. The oven timer is calling me.
Sometimes when I look at what I've written, I just see words on a page. My fingers are flying trying to capture the words ahead of me, not behind me - the words coming out of the mouths of my characters so fast that if I don't get them down on paper, they'll dissipate right there in front of me - and they won't come back no matter how hard I coax them. At that moment, everything thing behind them are just random words all thrown together, but when I finish with a page, a paragraph, a chapter or a book, the words are no longer just words. They're a story - a sense of accomplishment.
Good night, my friends. The oven timer is calling me.
Yum! |