Finishing a book involves a little grief. I liken it to becoming an empty-nester. You have given birth to the idea and story, watched it grow, gave it structure, discipline, and much love before pushing it out of the nest to become a thing of its own.
I can see where the ancients and mystics say the trees talk to them. The sound of leaves is magical.
Pumpkins, warm apple cider by the fire, cinnamon and pumpkin treats, and cozy clothes are no longer distant memories but anticipated events. Each season has its gifts. September gives us daily gifts reminding us of the beauty of the meld of summer’s end and autumn’s beginning.
Summer is fleeing more quickly than an ice cream cone dripping on a sweltering summer’s day. It’s hard to believe it’s the end of August and that we’ll greet September in just a few days
Every story I’ve written was written because I had to write it. Writing stories is like breathing for me; it is my life. Ray Bradbury I agree.
