Hidden in a toolbox, in the rafters of his four-car garage, was an envelope full of pictures taken by a private detective...They were pictures of a scrawny, boyish looking nine year old with a wide mouth and a tangle of brown hair...Her eyes were oblong and deep set, their color hidden from the camera by the slant of the sun. The angles and planes of her face were oddly beautiful just then, in that moment, frozen on Kodak paper. A hint of the woman she would someday become.
Sit down right now. Give me this moment. Write whatever__ running through you. You might start with __his moment_ and end up writing about the gardenia you wore at your wedding seven years ago. That__ fine. Don__ try to control it. Stay present with whatever comes up, and keep your hand moving.
Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within
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Sit down right now. Give me this moment. Write whatever__ running through you. You might start with __his moment_ and end up writing about the gardenia you wore at your wedding seven years ago. That__ fine. Don__ try to control it. Stay present with whatever comes up, and keep your hand moving.
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