Drafting, editing, and world building are the sapling in the sunlight, but the seed and roots that come first are the writer’s true creation story. As a child I often gazed out my window imagining, but that was but one root. I was also the child who was left alone for hours, sometimes until sunset—in the forest.
For years after I turned six I’d sit on a large rock amidst dense forest, lichen-painted and leaf-dusted boulders lurking in the undergrowth, a two hundred foot cliff behind.
At other times, in places where the cliffs were lower, I lingered beside a shallow pool beneath an overhang. In that place, the carriage road bordered the cliff so I was less alone.
Okay, I’m certain this all sounds a bit puzzling, so let me back up a bit…
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