Writing is complicated. At least it is for me. What I choose to write about is … a safe bit of text on a nicely folded sheet of paper tucked away in an office so that someone can figure out how to reload the stapler.
What I NEED to write about is … blood and gore and loss and terror and fear and longing. Screaming out loud. Being the only object between here and there, the messenger who saves the world, that sort of thing.
But I can’t do it out here, not this way, being confronted with the flashlight in my eyes.
Pause. That sounded suspiciously like an excuse. Well, yes, it was.
I’m still here. I’ve put away the folded sheets. Off screen I’m heading out to find the place my writing self needs to be.
And where is that? Instructions can be found inside the title.
Just FYI, my ancient desktop computer is undergoing its final death throes. I’ll try to come up with a multi-letter post by Z day. Not stressing, as the world is wide open and my words are learning the path to follow, tracing the arc for the reader who needs to know what happens next.