Yesterday I took a departure from my typical writing plan. Instead of working on my book, I stopped to write a short story. It had a different feel to it and became intoxicating. Time passed quickly, too quickly. Other duties called and I knew I had to leave these new found characters behind, but I longed to stay. Like real family members they have occupied my thoughts ever since. They retired for the night with me, awakened in the midnight hours by my side, and arose with me from bed early this morning.
I am troubled by them. They are in only half told form, missing elements that I already know exist which are not as yet penned. And I know that until those events are pinned down, they are fleeting, merely hopes on the wind, dreams maybe not to be realized. Will I recall all that has passed through my imagination? Will I do them justice on the page? Will they realize a full life and not a shallow one?
I do not know. I can only hope. And now, if you will excuse me, I need to write.
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