Sunday afternoons

It's Sunday--a day of rest (at least, I try to stick to that general concept)--and I've taken the afternoon off to follow my muse. no errands, no to-do lists, no should's or have-to's allowed. I drift wherever the moment takes me.

Usually, the moment leads me to paper in some form: something already written or something to be written.

The wonderful thing about starting to make a living as a writer is that people pay you for writing. The difficult thing is that writing then inches into the practical area of your life. It can become work. It can lose its glittery magic.

Sunday afternoons, I get a chance to remember writing as play...as a love affair...as a treasure found in stolen moments. It's a time to pull out that writing book I've been meaning to read (Page after Page, by Heather Sellers) and scribble through the exercises. It's a time to lie blank-minded in the hammock until a new story idea forces me to move so I can jot it down.

It's a time to be still, waiting to know what I want to do with a few hours' free time--and to take delight in the discovery that, after all these years, what I most want to do is write. With a splash of reading for seasoning.

:) Cheryl