Seeing passages appear on the page brings burning questions that demand answers. How, why, when, who, where?
My English teachers always harped on the five W’s, but I was one of those obstinate students who could spell — and I knew that how began with an H.
My obstinacy aside, I now see the wisdom of those questions. All four W’s — and that all-important H — have become impossible to ignore.
How things look and sound to me are vital, since I’m writing to learn the story just as much as my audience waits to hear it. Each new page is discovery and record at once. Then comes the task of returning through what’s written, making sure no thread has been left dangling—unless, of course, I meant to leave it that way.
But those moments aren’t simple pick-a-or-b choices. They’re shaped by the characters, the scenes, and the emotions alive at that instant—at that keystroke. One decision sparks another, and suddenly I’m tumbling through rabbit holes that lead far beyond the current page.
I now have three years of potential plot themes simply because I questioned my own writing.
Writing, at least the way my mind tackles it, is a wonder to behold. I’m merely setting down roots and letting Rowendrey tend the gentle shoots that rise from them—each one growing into a place I find myself more fond of each day.
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