Carried Away

"He had already been perched precariously on the precipice of emotion..." The Shack, WM. Paul Young.

I am beginning to recognize the work of certain muses. There is a zone that writer's enter into, swept in by a story, thought or idea. Until now, I thought we entered alone into this other dimension where words dance and play and dare.

Now, I know that we are escorted there by unseen helpers. Authors from the other side, perhaps. What I know is that when I got to a certain set of pages in The Shack, I recognized the zone, recognized the writing.

I'm not saying it's better than sex, I'm just saying that it is quite the magical ride and rollercoaster when the writing takes over and the words dance you.

Perched precariously on the precipice of emotion.