Sometimes when the dark clouds roll thru and we make hard choices, we manage to find the light that reignites creativity and purpose. Torching my feeble attempt at telling the story I’ve been working on my way was such a moment. Sitting down to write day after day is not the chore, not the burden, not the heartbreak that it has been for some time and the story feels like the characters are doing it, instead of me now.
I liken myself to the Nadia character from Alias on the Rambaldi serum, scribbling away from muscle memory the words in order with no aid or assistance from me. It’s as if they’ve been squealing all along to be let out and instead of opening the door, I’ve been asking for the password.