Write the stories you love.

That line comes to me often. When I hit an emotional wall, when words won’t flow, I hear those words. The stories I love, those tales that capture my taste for mystery, excitement, resolution.

And if I put my fingers to the keys, words flow. Not always making sense or useful images, but they flow. Like the tide coming in, wave by wave, so that the water line rises ever so slowly. A faint breeze stirs, tiny warmth encroaches against night cool.

Far to the east, out of sight, waves tickle the sand, teasing movement along the beach. In less time than it takes to make out the scene, lace foam decorates dampness with ripples, smiling at me. Waterline upon waterline vanishes under the next watery curl and the tide chuckles in.

Sunrise whispers into early dawn, nudging dark with filmy hints of light. A few reluctant cloud bits protest being edged away, then slide off. Light-fingers extend, tracing pathways for new sunbeams.

Drowsy bird chirps shift to full song. Leaves uncurl in the cottonwood, beginning to rustle. The mocking bird flexes his throat, his repertoire beginning with a robin’s borrowed voice .

Yellow-red sunlight saunters up and out across the horizon, spreading Day.

And I write.