He looked at her and smiled. "What a day for a daydream."
She searched for him and sighed. What a time to let it be.
Do you know why I like writing? Because of that [insert arrow] up there. Those four lines of story. They're not seemingly special, nothing fantastically evocative in the prose or inspiring in the new shaping of language. But it's what isn't there that has me humming.
The set up, of those four little lines, is yet to come. The characters - she and him - have yet to walk out from the shadows and form the story of life. Sell their own pocket of history, time and truth.
As a writer, I see angles. It's like Robert Frost is standing behind me, and with the curve of his hand he's beckoning the roads of travel to rise up to meet me. Each path leads down a different destiny, to a variation of each future.
I can weave a little, shift the setting slightly, adjust the hew of the horizon. But the direction they take, the places that they go -- that's all them. I've tried to force something before, and it's like trying to make out with a drunk guy at a party. Sloppy, grope-driven and a little stinky. Never good to go there.
The possibilities tease. In this little cusp of story, there is so much left to be said, yet to be done. Lives are just now being awakened. With their flowering, I gain so much insight, hope and release from what they will teach me.
Am I teaching myself - do I have all of that knowledge already? Maybe. But you know what, it's so much sweeter to allow the expression to form, to give over to the muses and offer up these new rolling hillsides for travel.
I hear their journey calling, taste their voyage as the drums begin to pulse at their feet and infuse them with direction and reality.
Now. What do you hear?
Today's word is: prescience