I stare at an empty post - so much like an empty page - and wonder. What will be here? What words will fill this space?
But as I wonder, I type, and my fingers tap out letters, words, sentences, and the space begins to fill.
And so it goes. Thoughts are not thought but typed, and when I come back to myself the page is filled with surprises. The mystery of the unknown ending made all the more curious for surely, surely, it must be known.
...my fingers carry me away, as is so often the case. They type of not they do not know, of what I cannot even dream, and yet they do not seem to care. They spin my own thoughts into a story, and begin to tell of she who is more interesting than me.
For it is not true that I trance when I write, or that I wake to words unknown. I am always aware, always here. But I am always surprised. I watch my fingers typing and see the words on the screen, and I am surprised. Often because I know where the story is meant to be going, but the keys on the keyboard conspire with my characters and suddenly we head off on an unexpected tangent.
...how closely my writing resembles my life. I myself have just been off on an unexpected diversion, a walk beneath the streetlights. And because I like the path less travelled, it took an hour and half, and we had to back track the last 30 minutes. My feet hurt now, and my arms are cold, but it was worth it. I just hope my grandmother feels the same way.