Wednesday, March 26, 2014
It's magic to me, the way it always starts with place. I mean, plot's important. Characters, certainly. But when I consider the starting point for anything I've gone the distance with, it's clear that the germination that sticks must touch on my experience of the physical.
The smell of Daphne wind. The warmth of sun through a closed car window. The texture of early spring landscape, brittle, hopeful, the slightest pastel peeking out from bark-gray. Tractors backing up. Apple cider in cold storage. Crusty leaves in sodden berms.
It's composting fast - as though I added some enzyme to it. I feel a writing day coming on.
Where do you start? When do you stop?