The stories already exist somewhere in my reality. They arrive at the doorstep of my mind and invite them in. I sprinkle them with my own brand of herbs and spices and put them out on the baking sheet of white paper with the faint gray lines. I bake them at a nice slow temperature until they are just write. It's a playful game. I smile as my pen flits across the landscape and I feel grateful that my hand and fingers work. Typing on the computer is so different. It puts a barrier between me and the words. With my pen I paint and draw and flow with the rhythm and time. Maybe like composing a piece of music...although I never have.
