Stories are the magic of our world. They come from nothing and spin and turn until there are words that make sense.
Like gems in the belly of the earth, we have to dig to get them out. Sometimes with our bare hands until our fingernails break and bleed.
And then there’s the time lapse between finishing what you think is brilliant and letting it stew so you can look at it again and cut away the dross that has collected all over the place.
There’s the picking up where you left off for dinner or to stop your 3.5 year old from ingesting a mini flashlight. Finding your place and pace and hoping the story stays connected and doesn’t turn into a potholed, badly refilled Indianapolis highway. You’re looking for consistency and ease of words. To come off effortless, even though you’ve brow beaten yourself in the process.
It’s a craft; an incredibly difficult one because of all the balance needed. But as said earlier, it’s the real magic in our world.
