I savor the energy transfer that happens when I physically scribe words that turn into lines that turn into paragraphs that end up in a composition of whatever genre it ends up being; luxuriate in the solitude of being alone in a magical, spiritual space to connect with whatever is there for me hear. I like the anticipation of what I call a “cocoon of comfort”; the moment it wraps around me as my pen scratches against the paper in my journal or my fingers touch a keyboard, it signals that my inner self or some other source has something I must get down and an intriguing journey starts as time seems to stop. I love the exhilaration that swirls throughout my body when an effervescence of words come so fast I can barely keep up; when a tiny spark of an idea or a phrase that ran across my mind develops into a full piece of writing; when playing with words leads to finding new meanings in stale thoughts; or when hidden narratives surface that bring answers to questions I didn’t ask. In short, I find that writing is a gift, a jewel I can share or keep to myself; either way, I’m grateful for a wonderful pleasure that so completely satiates my soul and spirit.