Whenever I’m in the mood for writing, I think constantly about the flow of traffic between one sentence to the next. Most times, I’m engaged entirely on the ability to let my words be themselves; forgetting the grammar bug and allowing enough room for a slight breeze to tangle in between the adjectives that often, and without too much trouble, drag themselves into the spotlight full of flare and glamor.
Every once in a while, I’ll close my eyes and fantasize about the beginning urge to write. This sensation gives me the green light to start the first letter of a sentence, or the last word in a poem. This is the romance of being a writer of any kind. Writers get the chance to explore the impact statement, and the characters that fall deep in between the wedges of thought. Writers get the chance to draw with multiple colors, and layer them with black and white overtones. Writers, for the same reason we exist, get the chance to break even without even spending a dime.
So, whenever I’m in the mood for writing, I stop and let nature take her course. She is, after all, responsible for dotting all those i’s and crossing all those t’s when necessary.