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
My reminder in my head: you’re not half as clever as you think you are.
A goofy little smile
Sometimes a story comes out.
It’s so simple it hurts.