Windy today with a slight chance of rain.  I hear the whisper of possibility between each damp gust colliding with leaves and earth.  In silence, in between, is where the story builds.  I see it from the corner of my eye, hear it on a level that defies sound.  It’s coming.  Be patient.  

Of course, writing is work.  Habit.  It takes sixty days to build one.  Or is that how long it takes to break?  Either way, if the goal is to be prolific, the mind must be disciplined.  Sit.  Stay Still.  Open the door inside you.  Write.Write.Write.

Sometimes, however, I disagree with myself.  Today is a worthy example.  Today, writing feels like letting go.  Relinquishing control.  Throwing away the leash/harness/reigns of some wild, ugly, magnificent beast and letting instinct (for that is what it is) pave the way to prose.  Today, the powerlessness of putting all trust in the muse is frightening.

The silence is too loud.

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