I find myself enjoying the simple freedoms of writing.

Writing four novels was liberating. There are no other words to ascribe to the feeling, perhaps floating in a warm, salty ocean of literary goodness with the sun on my face and a cool drink in my hand, eyes closed. That comes close.

I have a work in progress. Is it work? Is it labor of love in progress?

Maybe it’s fun in progress. Creativity in progress. Wait! I know!

Freedom in progress?

Ick. Too cheesy.

License to lit? The keyboard cha-cha? Expression in progress?

How about storytelling?

Oh, I like that one. It’s a story in progress, yes she is.

I love writing stories. Sometimes, I

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My reminder in my head: you’re not half as clever as you think you are.

A goofy little smile

Words

Sometimes a story comes out.

It’s so simple it hurts.