I've got it good. I've got a story to write.
The issue?
I've not made that writing a priority since last Friday.
Excuse excuse. Blah Blah Blah Ginger. (Hello Gary Larson, wherever you are).
The graveyard is filled with unwritten stories that might have been great but went with their authors to the worms. I'm being generous with the word author. The dead, and all.
Most of the time we slave away in invisible ink: nobody reads what we've written. If fortune favors us and we've studied the craft well enough, somebody may read our works. If we're very lucky, those somebodies will press the book and more than the mere handful of contributing producers will read our words.
If we're lucky.
If we don't put in the sessions into the night; if we don't refine our drafts; then we're writing in code with invisible ink. The story is never translated and the pages are never read.
Shame.
A bit like being run out of our adopted home before our time.
That would be a crime.
I'm off to write. You should do the same.
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