I might be a little impressed with myself, but I really am learning.

I started working my way through the first novel in my series again. Maybe it’s because I have a clear cut idea of who the character is now, or that I’ve learned a lot more than I thought in the past six months, but I’m liking this reconstruction.

Writing for me has been a release. It’s been therapy for a life that seems to be like tormenting me at times. It makes me happy, and lets me travel to times and places I wouldn’t be able to otherwise (pending the discovery of a TARDIS or other form of time/space travel). I’ve always been decent at weaving tales, but recently, something changed.

I’m not entirely sure what it was. I know what it felt like. It felt like some little switch in my brain finally flipped and I could see all of creation for a brief second. It felt like brilliance, like each word I picked held a special place and meaning for that story. Whether it’s true or not, I can’t say, but that’s how it felt.

It makes me think that maybe I’ve gotten through one of the numerous stages of growth I’ll undertake as a writer. I’ve stopped getting something good by happenstance and have started creating things with purpose and intent. It feels good.

I know there’s still a lot I need to learn, but I want to relish this moment. The moment where I realized I’m starting to make some headway is fantastic and wonderful. Yeah. I should get back to work.

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