Sooooon...

I don't think I've ever pined for writing more in my entire life. It's an odd thing, to be sitting around crocheting last-minute gifts when I start voicing aloud a dialogue between two characters, often going from anger to outright crying. No, I don't mean I'm dissociating and being taken over by angry characters begging me to write them or some other quirky shit young writers think they're being original about. I mean that I want to tap into the story so much that I'm talking to my yarn and wishing it was a keyboard.

The crocheted gifts are almost made and I'm excited about making their new recipients happy too. Yet, my memory, my moods-- they seem to be deteriorating under the wistfulness I feel for my stories. I left UnHeard's main character stranded in her upside down life. I left my UnNamed mercenary as a hot blooded teenager eager to prove himself. I left a saucy erotic and psychologically tortuous tale drafted but unedited. 

This is one of the reasons I've advised before not to panic if you can't write your stories every day. Those burning marks on your soul don't fade that easily. I truly do enjoy crocheting but only the need to make gifts for the holidays made it a priority at this time. My head is just aching to get back to crafting my stories.

Christmas is right around the corner so it won't be long before I dive into my stories' waiting arms and nuzzle the ever-loving shit out of them. I only have a few things left to finish, the holidays to enjoy, then comes the elevating orgy of words I've too long abstained from.

And if I sound overly poetic, then you aren't wrong. I feel like a Moody Blues song. Letters unwritten, never meaning to send. I've been pleading for my brain to accept these changes, both with working weekends to save for advertizing myself and crocheting these gifts. I've been emptying my characters and plots into physical expression but, like reading a list out loud, hearing and feeling it only cements itself into some form of being.

Back to the other things, fueled by the knowledge that soon will come the writing again. And it will be magnificent.