The brain sieve that activates when I sit in front of the terminal relaxed a bit last week and I can count a thousand or so extra words to my literary spill. They'll need to be retouched and rearranged, of course, but like babies they had to come out, ugly or not.
This isn't to imply that the process of writing (creation in its purest sense, perhaps) is tedious for me. I do find the story idea interesting, and have the absurd delusion that others will as well. I just find it curious sometimes that it trickles out, sporadically, rather than the deluge that once flowed from my fingertips in my more brash days. Experience would indeed seem to have placed a muzzle upon me.
But that's silly. I'm just choosing better battles. And when the bigger themes become obvious to me, the story won't be held back by any of this banal justification.
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