writing iv

I imagine anyone who writes feels it, but I am speaking to storytellers now. We are different, and poets I include in this, because faces and lines and plots and plans swirl in our heads like bits of lemon and cubes of ice in the lemonade pitcher Mother is stirring in June. Often we are driven nigh to madness by it, and what holy respite it is when at last the tales comes into some order and flows from our fingers. How many times, fellow wordsmiths, have you continued to see a face you've never seen, felt a pleasure in your body that never ever touched you in the waking world, and wondering, "Who are you?" "What are you?" "Where do you fit in?" How many times have you seen the half told tale and wondered, "When and where shall your time come?" "When, at last, will I be allowed to speak you so that the Word may at last be made flesh?"