Waiting at the Door

Date night fare from Sunday. Well, part of it. I also made tails poached in cream and chicken stock but those don't photograph as well.

I'm beginning to work some pieces up for submission. It's been a while since I've been in such a place.

I wrote something I'm quite happy with a couple weeks back. It was a break-though piece in a manner in which I haven't written in twenty years. I thought that sort of writing had left me.

You know the feeling of a piece of writing that has all those elements of yourself wrapped inside. It's those emotional bits that you don't dare think about for fear that they might actually leap back into your psyche and Dog knows we don't want that.

I sometimes get those feelings when I read what I think is an especially fine piece of writing by someone else. Now, I've got those feelings from a recent piece of my own - and not because I think it is good. No - I know the feelings are just because I'm sensitized to what is in the story and not because of merit or construction.

After years of sleepwalking, I am feeling a little of what it is to write about all those things that compel  action through emotion towards or away from something. That word - compel - has been missing from my writing for a long time.

Now that I feel it, I need to work on seeing that my reader feels it. I need to make sure it is not sensational emotional manipulation ( as I've read and despised in some authors) but something of value.

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