There are days when what I’m thinking can’t be written, more often than the days when what is written must be thought out first.
Prose runs and jumps, words forming chains like children holding hands and laughing. Playfully a few, a phrase formed by collusion, will tug another way to fool the line into confusion. A bit of time is spent in the regrouping of the scattered images that fell and up again, will clamber for control of the direction, will often split and run to north and south and to the river or the mountains; whichever way to follow mother’s call back home.
The writer, wringing helpless hands above the keyboard, lets them go.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology