It’s one of those days when I wonder about my life purpose, role on this planet, and life itself. I have always thought of people (and I should probably include other organisms in this thought) as being in small bubbles. My theory is that we bump, merge, and break apart in freedom to float through our lives. I
I am enjoying the subtle winter morning light. It’s the calm before the storm. The muted winter color palette has its own gentle glow of insular beauty.
“Her soul belongs to words and books. Every time she reads, she is home.” -Anonymous.
I should tweak this statement to read, “Her soul belongs to words and books. Every time she writes, she is home.”
But there is a peacefulness in this darkness. Most of the world is still asleep, and their dreams fill the atmosphere. It’s a pleasure to drive deep within the night and be at peace.
They say there are plotters and pantsers when it comes to writing. The plotters outline the book carefully and have the novel in place before writing. Pantsers just let the writing flow. I can honestly say that I am betwixt and between the two.
