I’ve been reveling in the forgotten joy of picking up a manuscript I set aside some time ago.  There are moments of joy found in paragraphs and chapters that excite me again as I re-read before beginning the writing process again.  And there are minutes of agony over words, sentences, and paragraphs that I now see would find a better home in the trash bin.

Characters reintroduce themselves, revealing intriguing new aspects of personality and motive that promise new directions and challenges for each of them.

Because of time spent away from the manuscript I see nuances to every action and reaction that I wasn’t aware of in the first flush of creativity.  There’s a freshness, aliveness, to each page as I pick up the threads of the story and begin to weave new patterns.

I’m in love with writing.  And it’s all good.