He sat at his computer in the cheap apartment, contemplating how to fertilize the story-seed that had infected his mind...
Not quite ready to create a draft---needing some skeleton-shape to hang it on---he began writing about fiction itself...
"We think our daily doings are real and they certainly are; but, not like a good story..."
Something happened in his mind---swift merging of meanings---a rising of worth; and, he continued:
"The writer sat there, wondering if this idea flitting through his soul could be coaxed and committed to words..."
The Flow had begun:
"He let the idea come to him, made a Space for it, wrote a few words...
'The writer was hit with a story, smacked in the heart---opened a new file and began typing:
"She wrote her way out of her old life---created a new one with her words..."
'He sat back and brooded---not sure which way to take the trail...'
The Flow stopped---he saved the words in the Cloud and on the flash-drive, shut down the computer, and waited a day to return to the budding Tale...
Four months slowly pass...
He was nearing the end of the Tale.
He began where he'd left off the day before and suddenly realized the story was wrapping itself up much earlier than he'd suspected:
"The writer didn't want to bring the tale to such an abrupt ending; but, the muse must be obeyed.
'Rushing to the end---unaware of the reader---devoted to the story:
"She finished putting down the words, feeling like a new creation..."
'No second guessing, the trail was winding itself to its end...'
He typed the final words:
"Life is often like this..."
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New Tale Next Saturday