We both thought I might be a rebel. It would have been nice. They get to hang with General Leia, after all.
Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t?
Run your fingers over the keys. Oh, let’s just call it what it is. Caress the keys. It’s a slow dance of creativity and love.
When I open the big book of writing, there’s often a dank, mossy well to draw from. It’s deep and it’s far from pretty.
Other days the skies are full of grey, rolling clouds and the paths shimmer from the rain. I’ve been trying to capture that eloquent moment between the rain and the sun.
I’ve stood there. Same stones. Same sky. But that guy stood there too. He came out of his house of film and captured my world. And then he turned it around and showed it to me.