The other side of the apple

The best stories leave you with a hangover after you finish writing them. I find editing to be a sobering experience.

I love words. The way they sound, rhyme, and how complicated ones have a funny rhythm to them. I love learning how to use them and putting them in sentences where they might or might not belong. I love thinking about them and repeating combinations of them in my head.
          It's really quite unfortunate I happen to be dyslexic.

When I start making more and more grammar mistakes, it's often a sign that what I'm writing is really good. That or I'm just getting tired. Both, I suppose.

Does the term stand up comedy imply that there is sit down comedy?

Sometimes I wonder if it's better not to write. Because the words on my paper will only ever catch a glimpse of the scenes in my head. But then I'm reminded that the scenes in my head don't make much sense.

I might be insane, but nothing makes me want to write more like being stuck with a scene. No not want, need. I need to get over this hurdle, over the frustration, and figure it out. 
          
          It's not a the good kind of motivation though, because often hurdles aren't resolved by pushing though. Insteady you need to take a step back, and a good night of sleep.

My favorite thing about writing is the moment when all the little details line up. The ones the reader won't remember reading, but will ever so slightly leave them with Déjà vu.

"Rowan was standing a little too close to the floodline when Layla caught him. Or he caught her, he wasn't sure."
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/story/407330512-a-slumbering-sea

Woah, I've just entered your English wattpad profile by reading through a lot of old messages on my profile. I love it :D ♡

Wake me up when the ink from long faded words starts to bleed from the page
          
          When this echo finishes its reprise and the silence has found a more gentle touch
          
          Where the things we fear can be tucked away in drawers, only to be pulled out when rainy days bring back the murmurs of deep conversation
          
          Bring me to a time in which screams don't have to sound like the silent choir of angels I found lingering above the grazed fields
          
          When these words find a way to silently fade into the dance of many, unrecognizable in mesmerizing thoughts
          
          Then I will open my eyes to a home handcrafted by the abyss I longed for