It calls me, more and more these days. The less time I seem to have the more it beckons me.
The ideas that pour into my mind tease me, taunt me … like a carrot dangled in front of a horse to make it walk forward, or even run.
When I have to write because I must, I end up staring at a blank screen. I’m like a pen whose ink has dried up.
Let the letters, words and sentences flow in their own good time and I’ll tell you a story, or ten.
How does one tread the fine line of living to write and writing to live?