The Veil

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 Standing alone, I see the colourless,
the poetic boundaries of the world. It gives me my place, my lane so to speak, where I can construct, or imagine, my
stories into being. It is not detachment from felt experience, but rather a subtle felt experience where what one imagines, takes up the same memory space as real experience. What is real after all? I use this often in relating how writing fiction enriches my life. A memory of something I did last summer feels much like a chapter or scene I wrote during that time. The imagery and details are similar. To the mind, both are experienced, both have left impressions. To be honest, to experience life in real time cannot be replicated, or equaled. Still, I have both experiences and grateful for the opportunity to create characters and scenes at any time in our history. That is the gift, to create stories, to inspire and entertain, and even educate. And all the while it comes from our own minds, or does it?  It is difficult to separate the writer from the written, and I won't try. I am everywhere in my stories, concealed, veiled, just out of sight, but not removed. I am the words, the plot, the characters, dark or enlightened, and somehow I must disappear for my readers. The craft.













 







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