Sometimes writing is difficult, and coaxing the words is a challenge that would try the most creative among us, and yet other times the words appear to come almost unbidden.  These times are special; stories can grow almost by themselves, like watching a skeleton grow flesh and come to life.

I frequently find it interesting to look at the mood of different parts of my work and I cannot help but see a certain similarity between my own thoughts and feelings and those parts of the book that seem to write themselves.  I think this is somewhat natural – possibly so much so that saying so is a little redundant, because it is so obvious.

I suppose then, that it is only natural that at times when my depression takes a particular hold of my mind, writing about feelings of grief, guilt and sadness is something that comes easier than lengthy dialogue or descriptive scenes,

“He felt ashamed to feel so weak, but acknowledging his weakness was better than pretending to be fine; better than lying to himself….”

“The last time he had been to Makom had been years ago, but he had always been fond of the place, yet now it all seemed different. He wondered if it truly was the town that had changed, or if instead it was him….”

“He could remember her smile, and the way the sunlight shone through her hair, and her eyes… yet he could no longer picture her whole face in his mind. He wept as he frantically tried to recall how she would look at him, how her eyes shone as she laughed. Tears ran down his face as he grasped in vain at the thoughts, only for them to run through his fingers like fine sand….”

© Robert Goforth, 2012, no part of this may be duplicated without permission. All rights reserved 

 I’m unsure this recognition is a good or a bad thing, or if it’s just a thing, but there you go.