Every day I wake up with a bone deep, soulful yearning. I ready myself to delve deep into my imagination and craft colourful picture with words that come more naturally from my fingertips than my tongue. I tell myself to satisfy that urge to write, to hold onto it as a fuel source and let it sustain my craft.
Then I stare at a blank page.
Write. Just Write.
So I write.
I cringe at the horrid words filling my page.
Often it’s enough to empty me of yearning for the day, until it starts over tomorrow.
But, if I push through. If I get past the dirt-rubbish-worst writing and push forward knowing I can come back and edit it over and over until it doesn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth; then I find what I’m really yearning for.
A sense of purpose overwhelms. A feeling of doing exactly what my soul needed. My mind alive with the story. My senses sharp. The characters’ presence is realer than my own. And, I know I’m doing exactly what I was created for; to open that place deep inside and bleed it onto the page.
