There are moments when I feel that I understand something. Something fundamental. Those quiet moments when everything comes into focus and all I can think of is the story, the desire to write.
In those moments I know how to write, instinctually. I know how to make a story great.
They come in the haze after finishing a particularly exquisite book, or watching something terribly sad.
I experience that emotion and I want to capture it in my own work. I can feel the hum of possibility.
But it’s late at night and the moment passes.
The next day it has faded and I can no longer touch it with reverent hands. I’m just another aspiring writer with a laptop and a dream, chasing the vision of a story that won’t quite come to pass.