I have started writing a children’s story. This is a far, far distant genre from my last written novel.
This story came about while joking with a friend about things that would be difficult or impossible to write. I came up with a subject that would fit this challenge.
She thought it would be difficult indeed, but then I started progressing the thought and—lo and behold—out of me poured line after line, idea after idea. My brain was ready for the task.
Up to that point, I had been writing my philosophical book and rewriting one of my previously written novels. While these things have value and merit to me as a writer, there’s nothing quite like dipping into the unexplored pages of a story purely creative in nature.
Later that night, I sat down and wrote 1200 words of the first chapter. I simply couldn’t type fast enough for what had already filled my head.
I had initially thought to write a simple story with few words, suitable for someone around five years old. It turns out the story had its own idea. Soon, a rich world awaited me.
I sat myself down in the middle of it, and that is where the happy writer in me waits now. He is kneeling in the tall grass on an island with trees around him. The breeze comes and stirs the trees into talking in their manner. Before him, the subject of the story sits looking up. He is waiting for me, too.
Getting to write like this day after day is a struggle only in that I can’t spend as much time writing on it as I would like. Life gets in the way. But it’s nice to know that I have something joyful waiting for me.
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