Good Sunday Morning. Don't forget to fall back to enjoy Daylight Savings Time. It always irks me, but maybe you like it, so please enjoy if you can.
I woke up thinking about my writing, my life's work actually. I have made my life around the stories, but I simply make room for the lives that come through me. I love my characters, and somehow I know each of them intimately. I wonder if other writers have this feeling, or if I am somehow connected to the infinite.
When I consider the latter, it seems to me that writing is a very spiritual occupation since it requires a very close observation of life and philosophy. Taking that thought further, I ask: "Is this my life and philosophy that finds its way into the story?" It seems to me that there are far finer souls in these stories than I.
I cannot say the right or wrong of this, only that I am compelled to do the work and send it out into the world.