Wibble Wobble

Sometimes when I write I start with a title. A sparking, burning bit of thought that springs easily to the tips of my fingers and onto, into the ‘net.
Other times I start with a snippet of thought, a topic. Mostly I start just like I began this.

Fingers on keyboard, a hesitant pause, a momentary lull in motion when even breathing pauses. And then I write. Sensibly, nonsensically, whatever springs to mind I let flow.

And when I can’t seem to start a flow I tease myself with words until I’m giggling inside and fit to burst with silliness or whimsy.

I always wonder how stories came to be when I read them. Do their authors simply release the floodgates and allow the tale to flow free? Is it more an effort to keep it in than out? Is it hard to tell the story? Do the characters and places snarl and resist extraction from their cozy corners in their creators’ brain?

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. Any more than I really know where my own stories or prattling come from. Mostly it’s just stream of consciousness, with slight editing to avoid Victorian-style capitalization issues, and strange run-on dilly-dallying sentences. When I write, like when I paint, or draw, or do anything really, I have a tendency to overdo, to embroider too much, to overload things. When I don’t keep them deliciously simple, nearly stark.

What a silly contrast.


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