Crack of light through the fissures

I found this crack of light coming through the fissures. Using a crowbar, I leveraged my way into the wall of darkness, and pulled with everything I had. There, amid the crumble and rumble and debris raining down, I found the light alright. 

I was writing again. Without any idea exactly where I was headed.

The thing is, I have characters who want their stories told. Maybe I'm headed toward Joshua's pencil drawings, or reclusive John Daniels' treatise on the merits of painting as therapy and transformation, or Bruck, unsure what to do with his love, or Sara, ruminating and not wanting to negotiate with phantasm, or Sergeant Ritchie O'Donnell, running his LGBTQ+ counselling group, but unable to be honest with himself about his own ex walking out after 15 years. And what about John Newman? What is he going to when he meets his old enemy from adolescence? 

I was writing toward something, anyways. Which is better than aimlessly sitting by the side of the road, watching the night sky, counting stars and wondering when my second novel rewrite would call to me again, or me ot it.

But that's poetic bullshit; I knew where I was headed. I was writing and rewriting and editing, hard, toward that light.

Thanks for listening or, rather, reading, whether you consider yourself boring or old, or not, which you are certainly not, ideal reader.

 "One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple."

—Jack Kerouac