Nothing in My Head But the Impulse

I spent the morning going through material for some short fiction I am turning into a collection to publish. I was stunned at the beauty of what I read and the way my creativity seemed to be a fountain flowing over pages and filling the entire notebook. 

I am thinking that it may even be a stand-alone project. I'll decide when I type the material and see how many words I have. How many pages. 

It's funny to look at this material, writing from a week away a few years ago. It's been marinating. Or maybe I've been marinating. 

It's stunning to notice how focused and beautiful my writing is when I am away and not distracted. Here, I write every day. But I am writing around my life. Around work. Around the many projects I'm working on. Around stress. Around paying bills. Around thinking about what's coming next. What I am forgetting. What needs to be done. 

It's been awhile since I took myself away to write. And dedicated my time and my focus just to that. To reading. To thinking. To slow walking in nature. To writing and then writing again. And again. Until there's nothing in my head but the impulse to put pen to paper and mark its passage.

The Great Summer Writing Retreat of 2019 begins. One hundred days of writing unedited ideas and following a prompt to its sometimes illogical conclusion.