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  1. About a month ago I was very frustrated with writing. I wanted to write, but I just couldn't get the words right. So I decided to write a little short, see if that helped.

    In the beginning, it’s like darkness. Not the absolute that blinds, but a soft black which glows. And it terrifies me. In total darkness I might stumble blindly, groping, hoping my fingers touch something. But in this soft light I can see there is nothing. Then I see a strand, thin as violin string, but tall as a tree, and I reach out to grasp it. Now I have my hands around it, I know I am not falling, or moving.
    As I hold it, it stirs, slightly, and high above my head, or maybe deep beneath my feet, I hear music. Faint and simple, but now I know I am not deaf. Two more are within reach, then three. Soon they stroke my arms, caress my cheeks, and sooth my fears with their complex melody, this forest of taught strings. I am no longer floating, I am connected. When I am tired I stop clambering and rest, as if in a hammock.
    I awake and go deeper, and the forest of string thickens, and I begin to struggle. I am bound. I move one leg forward and I feel them tighten, before slowly slipping through, into the grasp of new, eager, threads. Sometimes the melody becomes harsh and bitter, but I have to move forward. My passage has twisted everything behind me into thick ropes and crisscrossing nets. So I move forward, sometimes happy to play the sweet melody, other times wishing only to cut myself free…but I can’t.
    I think back to my beginning, floating, free and unconnected, and then I carry on. Soon I’ll be out, and freedom will turn to fear, just as a stable rope became a binding chord. But for a few moments I find the right strings, and the resulting melody soothes and calms me, for a time.
  2. In my writing group one of the exercises was to answer the question "What do I really want to write about?"

    About strange places where bushes and trees grow knowing they are meant there, and nameless travelers wander in to hear the story of the vale.
    Stories of characters climbing rock cliffs with yellow sand dunes underneath climbing until their fingernails are chipped, and dirt dries their blood, but they never waiver.
    Gentle boat rides down a calm river, with thistle tucked between your teeth.
    Two people dancing all alone in a forgotten ballroom, but memories conjure up shadows to surround them.
    Castles constructed with a purpose, over beautiful falls, then forgotten, until new owners know nothing of its past.
    One person running in the dark.
    Gentle moonlight flitting over green leaves as wind blows through the trees.
    That moment when a character is motivated by more than what they want, because they have found a purpose.
    Moments when those wonderful questions are asked;
    Do you have anything worth dying for? Do you have anything worth living for?
    A little room, warm fire, cool shadows, pleasant company, and laughter that makes you happy, nevermind tomorrow and what it might bring.