There are many times that I run into that avenue where the various' writer's mind of its own, ideals a 'jamble' and seems to end the division of writing or story--even before the words themselves have finished printing themselves on the page or glowing screen. It is a ghostly feeling. that whether or not I will be able to capitalize on my own mind's capacity or capability, effectively and precise, as equally as I know the visions are there. In a gesture of reassuring, I follow a method previously described and utilized by many more powerful writers whom have influenced me by the individuality. Twins in this fashion only in the small areas where my mind consistency has ownership capacity--I am a big fan of the premesis of ownership of one's own work, a true capability, and this is how the particular explanatory tale came to be manifest inside this essay.
So I weave. I weave and weave, web-spinning those neurotransmitters into overdrive of the story or piece, fiction or non-fiction (including vocabulary); creating a thunderstruck quantitatively striking difference of where the original work might have went. This is what also helps achieve a small secret goal of mine, which creates a billion ideas inside the mind of the reader (as well as) in every single line, of my constructed writings. And this is just me, I'm afraid--and I'm not ashamed. lest I would never love to read, and evocative readership would meet its tragic demises to other components of my content creative mind (and of course I believe that this will never happen). Yet it might. Even at times when the work may be duly considered, to the reader who knows what she-or-he reads. And this is a varied approach. So I weave and weave my silk organizationally defying an editor's previous ethics of standing standard, the same as land-level common woman or man. Writers!
Until the story tells a story within itself, within itself-within itself, itself; and anecdotes and rare periodic architecturalized frustrations about this process are vastly permitted to season the stew. So all comers can have the opportunity to sip from my pen (if the work makes one gag) and laugh and soak up blinding light from the horrible glowing screen from beneath the closed lids of the rest-reflection, and with cold pleasant eyes (--if the finished product is any good).
Literally not literally for fear that as lightningly fast, I'd never sell a work. Hahahahahaaa says the villain. A joyful sky versus the pouring rain, yet we must all get our inspirations from somewhere. Mine are my favorite. Writing is Bliss.