The back of my mind’s scrubbed raw from my illness flaring, nightmares, etc. Yet…
Something’s… there…
I think I know how I hafta get stories started now. A seed has to be there… that makes my mind scrabble for purchase on a concept.
…and then it gets… percolating…
until, tentatively, like leaves branching out to the wind (be the winds gentle or harsh), words start to form one on top of another…
… and I think, maybe, here, I have something. Something concrete.
But. A germ, a seed, there must be. I can’t cobble together words , catches of phrase together, with no flat inspiration, life to them.
At least, that’s how through *my* waters I must navigate.
Or, it simply may be these words, uttered to me earlier:- “My advice to you is don’t apologize for what you have to write. Ever… Because that’s the only way you will get to write what you need to write. Don’t censor yourself. Don’t apologize. Ever.”
What do you think is the reason? One, the other? Both? One more than the other?
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