A tribute to the week...

The rise and shine each and everyday, preparing for work, some would never dare. Going through motions to appear to be alive. Just enough effort but never to strive.
Quiet to relax, slow to move. There is no resistance, no performance, an easy groove.
The TV is on playing to cats, who disregard the noise by sleeping.
As I type these words there is something amiss. Something else I should be writing instead.
Understand that a writer is constantly writing in our heads. The words travel seamlessly, flowing from one thought to the next. And I try to catch those thoughts with a net. Since thought is pure energy and without form, it is a perilous job indeed.
Sometimes the characters get rather assertive and want more time.
"Bring me to life!" they cry out, as in a way they are real. Created from some deep recess of mind and thought, sort of a gift from the collective unconscious.
When it flows, it pours like rain. Then are days of pressing and stress.
Writing is an art, craft and talent, but hard to gauge. One can paint and others see the work immediately. Another can play a guitar, piano or any musical instrument and others can hear. But with writing, it is between the writer and page. A solo act for a solo act.
And here I am reaching out to you.
Truly wanting for to enjoy what you read. The process from word to the next. Not knowing what to expect. Hoping for a miracle, a revelation, even enlightenment.
Stories have shaped and changed the world.
Books have moved armies, moved peoples from one place to the next.
I only ask that my stories reach those, my audience, whoever you may be.
And that my words touch you in some way.
Be it laughter, a smile or a tear.
This is my gift, may it last.