I woke up bright and early full of plans for the day, every minute mapped out. Stretching, I pulled the quilts closer around my shoulders, knowing there were still a few minutes before I had to get moving. As I tried to convince myself to get up a little earlier than usual, I had one of those moments I love.
A scene began to run through my head. I rarely see the pictures, but the ideas begin to flow and arrange themselves into beautiful sentences. I let the moment play out for awhile, immersing myself in the emotions of the character. I've learned I can't write it down too soon, I have to let the whole thing run out in my head. But as soon as the words stopped, I grabbed the pen and pad of paper I keep next to the bed and scribbled them as fast as I could. But this time when I went back to read it, I was a little confused.
The sentences are strong, the emotions riveting, but it is such a departure from anything I've ever written before, and I don't quite know where to put it. It's just a scene, and the accompanying story still eludes me. There are glimmers of an idea forming in my head, but meanwhile, the words sit in my notebook, hoping I'll find a home for them.