Writing is like painting a picture. First you start with a general idea and a direction. You vaguely know where you are going, but you know that the process itself will direct the piece you are creating. So the paper is blank, and you enter a few words. They become alive, lazily at first, and they begin to demand your attention, roping you into them until you become completely braided together wtih them. They take on a life of their own, and they tell you where they want to go. Your fingers fly as fast as they can across the keyboard as you obey the words in your head and put them down on the screen. The story evolves as you write it, and it goes places you never intended it to go. It stretches you in ways you never wanted to be stretched, but it feels right, and you have to follow through. Before you know it, it is birthed, right there in front of you–a very imperfect little baby, full of promises and wonderful dreams. So you walk away for a while, in wonder about this thing you created which is now alive on its own…
When you come back, it sits there, ready for you. So you begin to work, making it more precise, less wordy, more full of pictures without the adverbs. You mold each sentence so that it is just right, full of the perfect life. And then you walk away for a while, in wonder about this thing you created, amazed at the love in your heart….
When you come back, you put the finishing touches, the accents that make your heart sing. And then you know it: it is done. It has come full circle and it is just right. So you smile, thankful and amazed. You just birthed a beautiful baby.


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