The Long Winter

The last time I opened the Scrivener document that is my work in progress, 56,944 words were written. That was eight months ago. The word counter reports the same number of words this morning.

I have written about not writing. I hibernated, gestated, lay dormant. I want the seeds of my ideas to sprout. I want them to burst through the frozen dirt, powered by magic and stored energy. I want them to soar skyward with ease, at an astounding rate.

I want Talitha and Anastasia Sophia to wake from their long slumbers. I want their walls to fall away. I want them to emerge from their shells. I want my characters to unleash their stories, whispering lovely and horrid details in my ears, showing me images and movies, so that I may record them in journal pages and computer documents, so that they may be seen and heard.

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