Finding the words is key. Not just any words – the beautiful, blunt ones. Each one imprecise by itself, but when assembled in a constellation suddenly able to carry an emotional texture unmatched in its depth and fine, fine resonance. A little like oven gloves. Clumsy and useless alone, but once paired, capable of so much more.
It’s quiet outside. The world is sleeping and I shouldn’t be here. I should be asleep, but here is where the writing happens. It’s a place that the ghosts of the eloquent words finally come gently to my dancing fingers. Like intricate little knots, stories need to be understood before they can be written. Sometimes its as simple as the right words providing the momentum that coerces the string. Flopping into a loose and beautiful pattern. Sometimes it’s so much harder than that.