For the same reason I'm writing it--I wonder where in the heck it is going. Isn't that the way with carving or sculpting, you throw the clay onto the wheel, it begins to form. It takes shape under your hands. You you pick up a chunk of driftwood at the beach. It clearly tells you what it wants to become.
Perhaps we will meet in the middle, I write, you read. Or not.
Here are a few things I know for sure:
They say that we live to experience life. We write about it to make sense of it. I am doing that, and I encourage others to do the same--it's better than therapy, cheaper too.
Perhaps I ought to change the name of this blog to Wishing on Pink Flamingos instead of Wishing on White Horses, for this pin from my #Pinterest site has more repins than any other.
My daughter and I called ourselves The Pink Flamingo Real Estate Team when we were Real Estate agents--thus scooping through the sand. That endeavor lasted about a month, for we found that our ladder to success was leaning against the wrong wall. We didn't want to be Real Estate Agents. Besides my writing, there is something else in store...
I wonder what it is.
Love to you,
P.S. Oh, yes, don't forget to vote for me--as often as you can--no more than once a day. I'll love it, my dog will love it, my cheering section in the eithers will love it, the rest of the writers for #Harlequin will snarl in disgust.