A river begins its journey in high places, running and dancing on its way down, skimming through rocks, lazing in pools, delighting in its own momentum. As it hits the plains, however, the river pauses to consider, slows down a little, thinks before it moves on. And before it meets the sea, it spreads out, giving more to life than it ever has, and then dissolves its identity in salty water.
My writing looks like it is making a similar journey, seeing a similar change in momentum. And I hope one day, like the river, it gives back to life. But if it ever gets published, I hope it does not lose its identity—that the metaphor that has held good so far breaks down.