I sat this morning and wrote. It flowed.
When it didn’t, I got up, made a coffee, and took washing out of the tumble dryer. When the kettle clicked, and after my coffee was made, I returned to my writing.
Words poured forth again.
A story began to take shape.
It was a story about the past. Not my past, but a known past nonetheless.
I didn’t research it. I didn’t get distracted by googling every reference I made.
Instead, I kept it simple and honest.
I wasn’t trying to ground it in facts and figures.
I was creating something that came from a different place.
As I wrote, images appeared in my mind’s eye. I saw my character but didn’t move to describe him or his wife.
I saw his movements. I heard the birds he heard. I felt his back ache as he lifted his produce onto the cart.
I acknowledged some of this in the words I wrote, while also leaving some work for the reader.
I took my time, and another coffee was made. More clothes folded from the dryer. Tasks have to be completed, but they don’t need to be rushed.
I worked at my own rhythm and allowed the story to form.
It didn’t take me long, in the scheme of things. Just an hour, or perhaps two.
When it came to an end. I felt a quiet satisfaction. But I didn’t rush to publish it. The time for that wasn’t now.
Instead, I put it into storage. I allowed it to sit, just as I sat.
In many ways, I am a quiet rebel, holding to my own rhythm. I am slowing down and allowing moments to mean more.
Not the past moments. Not the future moments.
But now.