Sometimes I write with my eyes closed. My eyes hurt lately. I’m one prone to fear so I always assume I’m going blind or have brain cancer or something, but the truth is that I think I’m just getting sleep and also not getting enough sleep.
So I close my eyes and write for paragraphs at a time. Lately, I’ve been typing half asleep. I’ll jolt awake mid sentence after being asleep for seconds or maybe a whole minute, and then I keep going.
I’m trying to wake my sleeping mind.
These words burn me. This story scorches the backs of my eyes, my fingertips, my lungs as I write lyrics to ancient songs in an imagined place.
I am playing with fire.
But I am trying to become the fire itself.
Writing is casting a spell. It’s magick. It’s freakish and it’s beautiful and it is a curse I carry with me all my life and it is a conjuring making me whole, more myself, forever expanding beyond myself.
This conjuring, this spell, this ritual that we’re calling Twilight of the Wolves is going to be my greatest performance yet, or so I hope, and so I toil, and so I keep diving back in, discovering new layers, discovering all things new all at once all over the novel.
Just today I came to conclusions about book three and subplot for book two, but I’m still here in book one, working my way through.
Anyway, tomorrow is another day.
Another day to become fire, to be filled with magick.
Leave a comment