451 words tonight. Not sure if they are good or bad, but they are out there now and the story has a new twist. To write about the mother, I need to write about the father. Both are such vile, loathsome creatures.
Writing is meditation and meditation is writing. Hold the seat with no gaining idea. Let the thoughts arise as they will. Observe them. Notice how the ideas dress themselves in words. Observe the words. Place them on the page. Let the words accumulate. Let them pile up in a gorgeous heap. Let them rise first to the knees, then the shoulder. Let them rise to the ceiling until you are buried in words. Let them rise until you are drowning, and you are unable to breathe. Then, stand back. Shake off the words. Remind yourself, no gaining idea.
Keep doing this. Not because the words are sacred. The words are not sacred. The words are mundane. Nothing special. Do this because words are nothing special. Keep doing this because the words are mundane.