Writing is for me a capricious art, sometimes being stubborn and unforgiving. However, there are times when writing comes easily and my thoughts are pollinated. I cannot quite describe how I know when I will write well, I just know. Usually what happened in my day gives it away. A good chat with a friend will stimulate me, while a hard day at work saps any talent. Only with a brain full of unbiased ideas, will I function.
             Ideas always come to me. On a bad day, the crowd of recycled thoughts corrupts it. On a good day, this untainted idea finds me. Slowly I release some slack, allowing the bridge to channel across the mote. Defenses go down and my stuff finds coherence. I type as quickly as I can so my stuff will get to the screen before I forget it. Then these jumbled ideas come to a realization before me. Once my fingers start to move everything starts to make sense. No longer do I worry about the tedious things, because now I am filling my canvas. Words come through in an elegance of a smooth rhythmic pattern, until I capture my stuff in my time capsule.
             Unfortunately, now all the fun is gone. My nice fifteen-inch monitor shows the work of a sloppy typist, with poor spelling at that. For the next several hours, I will go over my work. Correcting sentence structure, compromising my heart felt four letter words with something more appropriate from the thesaurus. I try to put contrast where I need it, relax where I do not. Finally, I click on the dreaded spell checker and riddle through my typos.
             After all my self-embarrassment, I ask myself why I even went to the trouble. Then I marvel over my paper and realize I did pretty well. I said what I wanted, and meant what I said. Literature is an Art. A time captured on a canvas, still, waiting for a reader to come along and make it live again. Now all I need is a forgiving reader!
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