Where do I go today? To whom do I think about and put into words? Where in this endless world of ideas will I stop and push pin the exact location where the story is born? What period will enter my mind? Will it be the twenties or thirties, maybe the seventies, when life was filled with colors and wildflowers? Everything is a story waiting to be written, like pairing lyrics with melodies.
Will I task my memories with choosing who, where, and when the story will begin and end? Or do I wing it and see what transpires? Where do I go today as my fingers await a command to start, and my mind and heart obey?
A story is nothing more than a fleet of ideas crowding my mind that could explode if not written and, even worse, forgotten forever. Telling stories to me is as personal as the words themselves jumping off the paper and speaking to me.
So where do I go today? I don't know yet, but I'll get there as the rhythm of the keys pounds out words that will join other words as a story emerges. And a huge smile crosses my face, knowing I know where I'm going today.
Mike 2025
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