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Short Story / Non-Fiction
Short Story / Other
Short Story / Other
Simply, I keep my senses open for stories that come to me. When inspiration strikes I enjoy exploring where it will take me. There is no way to define what I do, or desire to accomplish. I write for the pleasure of capturing a thought. I cannot fully explain it, and hope I never will be able.
The mundane nutshell is this: My father began to write as soon as he retired. He wrote mainly peotry, and I peeked over his shoulder. He only lived a couple years after he had begun, but I found myself infected with the urge to write. I have found pleasure in writting since I was Seventeen. At that time, I tapped maple trees and wrote at night. I wasn't very good, but I enjoyed it in every way. I can't say that I have gotten any better, but the writers curse is that we are constantly chassing, every creation revealing the next to be explored. I accept that I may be chassing the perfect story, and I may chase it forever. Most of them I discover while they are being written. You can claim that I waste my time, and I would have nothing to prove otherwise. However, I can't deny the euphoria I get when I experience a story spawn out of nothing.
My version is: Life's brutal enemy is time. It eats away and takes things away from us. It is a two-faced entity that brings the joys in life and is to blame when they are taken away. It won't seem to go away, and if it didnt: nothing would be the same. I found in writting, that it seems to defy time. Authors long dead speak to me, and as I write I have a glimmer of hope that some words might survive beyond my day. While that may be grandiose thinking, I try and write down thoughts before they fade away, before my memory lets them float away. Just one captured thought can make my day, and that is why I will never stop. Writing stories along the way.
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