Water Running

 

For me, writing is like a leaf on a tree in autumn—a leaf by a creek. The creek might open into a river or even mouth into the great ocean, but as we know, it might not. Literature starts as a leaf on a tree by a creek in autumn, and the clear wind blows and rocks the leaf from its foundation and it falls. It might swirl or toss, but it might just fall lazily into the creek where it has to be and glide downstream—left, right or straight—but always gliding. It sees the life around it change and shape and stay the same. It spins, or maybe not, but it makes its way to the end in the water and stops or flows on.