It starts with an image, a phrase, a metaphor and then I run with scissors right down the hall with it. If I don't get it down on paper quickly enough it passes.
Paper is a must. With purple ink from my favourite pens. The words flow so much better on real paper, as much as I love typing.
I want to stay in bed all day long with my cat, writing away, drinking tea and burning incense. I need solitude, as Ms. Woolf said, "a room of one's own" in order to accomplish what I want to.
I have huge ideas and a feeling that time is both at a stand still and yet a great sense of urgency. Every day that I age without words on the page is a wasted one. I need to get this down before I lose it again.
