Does that mean capturing the stars of the heavens and squeezing light and life from them?
Somehow I will draw their essence into my body and black ink will flood the page in the tumult of a flood.
Floods are never orderly, so unlike the neat, black letters dancing across the screen in an endless pattern of addition and deletions.
Floods destroy in a deluge of roiling, dirty water. So. I learned to guard my tongue, my words, my pen. A blessing, learned from pain. I sought to find the right words.
Years later, down in Chehalis, you will see garbage caught in the tops of trees, as much a part of them as the leaves in summer and the bare twists of branches in winter.
A prolific writer sees such things, and her mind drifts from these memories, wondering how to compose them into tangible form. Thought cannot be felt, but somehow if thought enters the realm of writing it can touch others.
If you could see into my mind as I stared into the stars on a summer evening, you would see thoughts as numerous as stars flooding the sky in the ethereal Milky Way.
You, and my thoughts, and I would tumble up among the stars, and I’d take you to realms unseen.
This is the art of a prolific writer: a million snatches of stardust.