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There are two books lying on my desk, Which Witch? by Eva Ibbotson and The Trespassers by Zilpha Keatley Snyder. A wrinkled and folded piece of paper containing various scribbles and book lists is wrapped up by a pair of earbuds, my broken glasses resting neatly beside. I’m halfheartedly wishing that there was a great big tabby cat laying on the remainder of my desk, but I will settle for Drama Queen to staring at me from the door frame.

I’ve just returned from that cool after-rain summer night, when you can hear the crickets loud and clear over the soft hum  of the highway. Bill’s tucked into the barn, munching on his nightly quota of grain. Millipedes cover every and any wooden surface, doing their slightly smelly millipede-y thing.

It sets the scene for my next idea, a girl lost alone in the woods- while an idea not original- but different through my eyes. She can see the auras of each creature, she can touch the stars in the wild but not in captivity.

I’m riding that delightfully horrifying high that is ‘finishing’ a short story, praying that someone will read it and exclaim it’s beauty, and also praying that no-one reads it at all. A few rushed hours of typing frantically and editing slowly are done and over with, the near emptiness of a story grown and left the nest.

Thinking about writing is easy. Thinking about the wonderful stories I could craft with words and emotions is plumb too easy. Writing these ideas out is the hard part, articulating how I see a situation in a story nearly too difficult to express.

And yet I have done it again. A flow of my thoughts from brain to keyboard or from heart to paper. Paragraphs of nonsensical wonder break up the blankness of a page, capturing the story of my soul.

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