Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t?
My first book. Beginning, middle, end. First draft, second draft, final draft. Darlings killed, darlings slayed. Done.
Run your fingers over the keys. Oh, let’s just call it what it is. Caress the keys. It’s a slow dance of creativity and love.
When I open the big book of writing, there’s often a dank, mossy well to draw from. It’s deep and it’s far from pretty.
The balance of keeping this world separate from that one. Of making time for the putting down of words, instead of the picking up of new ones.
The Macquarie Dictionary is “Australia’s National dictionary”. But it also feels like it is ours. It has our slang, both old and new, and it captures the subtleties of Australian English. It’s also where we can find beautiful regional words and phrases, like three-corner jack.
At hour 11, just to keep pushing, I found myself writing when I had forgotten how to write a proper sentence. How can that be good for me? Because, despite that, I was still writing.