I spent all day writing yesterday, and with the joy of the fulfilled task, relief came.
I fell how the knot I’ve had for days in my throat started to loosen up as if the stories had been there just waiting and instead of setting them free, I had only been piling them up.
I am free I thought, but then the need for writing stroke again.
New stories came from nowhere. Some were good, some were sad, others ridiculously funny, but they all were in need of a home.
I think I might be able to build them a little house, where they can be happy.
After all, there’s nothing special about writing as Ernest Hemingway said “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”