You sit down, alone in a room. Completely cut off from everything, except, perhaps your choice in tunes. In a moment, you must drop your present conscious mind and fall into the world of another. Somehow, words stream into sentences, into paragraphs, into stories where once there was a blank page.
At the start of your meditation, the page was blank, did you know where you would end up? Did you have any idea where you would be by the end of that page? You had a general idea, yes – point A to point B – but what lines and rhythm would you there? Did you know where in that world you would explore? There would be the streets of a city but what about the crack that trips your character to see something new, defining. Did you know that?
If there is anything that can be compared to magic in this world – it is the construction of prose. The twists of words and lines, that build the perfect story.
Writing, is weird.