My words are not my own. The come to me from some other place, having drifted through time and space. Filtering like autumn leaves and rays of dappled summer light, they settle, cloaking my shoulders and tickling my mind. In every hue from bright to misty they create a kaleidoscope of intensity. Tell us, they whisper, set us free. They clamour through me, determined to escape, seeking the tips of my fingers, the edges of my lips, intent on creating a whole - to form a new story.
I’m editing at the moment, tossing and turning between two completely different manuscripts to suit the vagaries of my topsy-turvy moods. One is a fantasy for 9 – 12s - a jolly romp written a long while ago into which I’m trying to weave a slighter richer, more deepening thread. The other is a supernatural work - magical realism, perhaps - for older teens, dealing with the reality and mystery of Death.
You can tell my moods are disparate and divergent, can’t you.
I put it down to the insanity that insists on persisting around me. But I’m still not ready to write about that, I’m still trying to find some semblance of sense – though I suspect that may be an unequal task.
Back to the editing – though I’d rather be writing something new given the way these words pursue me.
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