My dearest mermaid darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,
There is a most curious and comforting steadiness that settles upon the heart when a story is first entrusted to ink rather than summoned upon a glowing screen. I have long held the habit of beginning each manuscript by hand, as though I were coaxing a shy creature from the reeds. The gentle drag of pen upon paper bids the mind to slow its gallop and take a measured walk instead, and in that softened pace the tale reveals itself with far greater honesty. Ink requires patience; it does not tolerate haste, nor does it flatter distraction. It asks only that one sit, breathe, and listen.
When I write in this manner, I feel as though I am in quiet company with those women of former days who composed their letters and novels by lamplight, trusting the rhythm of their own pulse more than the ticking of the clock. The story is not forced forward; it unfolds, stitch by stitch, like a length of silk drawn steadily through waiting fabric. And thus it is protected — not from labour, but from hurry.
Below, I have opened the door of my little writing room a trifle wider and spoken more fully of this practise — for those among you who delight not only in the finished book, but in the tender rhythm that lives beyond the pages.
May you find there a cadence to accompany your own.
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