Two Roads.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. -Robert Frost

Friday, January 13, 2012

Writing defines my soul and gives my heart permission to breathe...

Writing defines my soul and gives my heart permission to breathe...
I don't know what it is about the night that allows me to write so freely, but it is always in the deepest hours of the night my mind races to put into ink what is written on my heart. It is as if the darkness gives my soul permission to reveal itself just enough to accomplish forward progress in the crazy world we call writing. While full-time writing is an acquired discipline, free-form is more when the spirit feels most vulnerable. For me, that is at night.