I always believed that I would write a book. Story-lines flashed through my mind even as a child walking home from grade school on a frigid winter afternoon. I remembered the beauty of a newly fallen snow and it triggered my imagination to create stories about the neighborhoods I passed. In no time, I’d be home having entertained myself all the way.
My sister reminded me that instead of reading stories to her when I babysat, I would make up stories. She never forgot the one about a young dancer who yearned for red ballet slippers but her family had no money.
I rarely recorded my stories. When I did jot down an intriguing few paragraphs, there was no follow through. I saved my notes and moved on to a new interest.
Suzonne of Twin Flames did not allow that. Scenes and dialog filled my brain.
When I didn’t write it down, it continued to repeat until I did. However, there was a time limit. If after many opportunities, I had to write it down or run the risk of loosing it. It may or may not repeat weeks later.
I could be driving down a highway with this unrelenting story having a field day in my thoughts.
There were times when I pulled over to write as much as possible on a scrap of paper that happened to be in the console. Eventually I kept a spiral notebook on the passenger seat. I learned to take it everywhere: waiting rooms, shopping, the beach. I never knew when I would be given a thought that had to be captured.
Many times I wrote the chapters until the wee hours, 3 or 4 AM. The next day after reading what I had written I said, “I wrote that? It’s really good!”
Pantalla :
