Writing to me is always changing. Every time I sit down to write, a different thing happens. And I'm never fully ready for it. However, I've found consistency in in this ever changing, inconsistency.
The last three times I've sat down to write, it's been different because I've approached it differently. First, I had lost the scene in my head I had to write. I had to create a new one when I couldn't recall the old one. Then, for the next time, I had the scene in my head and it came out in the most perfect way imaginable. When I've written today, it came out somewhere between those too. It wasn't particularly amazing and it wasn't frustrating either. It simply felt like a very creative chore.
What else never stops amazing me is how things suddenly connect while I'm writing. How a little something I added twenty seconds ago spirals and explodes to be this remarkably beautiful thing that I never had any clue I was creating. I tend to think of this as a skill. I like to think of it as talent or intuition. It feels more like magic than any of those things.
My last novel I wrote (all 80,000 words of it mind you) in two months. I have very little memories of actually putting hard, backbreaking hours into writing it. Looking back, it simply feels like I breathed on a window pane and voila, I had a novel. The entire process was pure magic.
This novel is intricate to the point where I'm only aware of all the points I've created in the very back of my head. That part behind your cerebellum where you can't access your thoughts. I keep finding more and more things that connect. I'm not even aware of connecting them. They just seem to materialize from the tips of my fingers.
I guess what I'm trying to say here is writing is magic. Not a hocus pocus sort of magic that I'm-only-writing-this-for-halloween-magic. A sort of magic that you-can-see-every-day-and-still-be-amazed-by sort of magic. At least, I'm still amazed by it.
2, 512 words.