There’s a vortex that writers go in when they write. Other writers won’t tell you that. They’ll say they are “in the zone” or meditating. But it’s a vortex. 

There’s a quietness all around us and the more we write, the deeper we go . . . the stronger the suck. It’s a peace like nothing ever felt before. It’s a cocoon of warmth. It doesn’t extend out forever; we can feel its edges and we know if someone steps into it they will burst it. From its edges it slopes toward us like a funnel; and there we sit in the center, getting sucked further and further into our thoughts, our characters . . . our story. We don’t see what’s coming until we type it. It’s not a vision; it’s a direction—a constant forward movement into the vortex as the funnel maintains its protective span. It’s an aura—a blur of the world around us as we venture further into our own world. And as we venture further into the vortex, the world around us grows blurrier and the story ahead more clear, bright with colors and sounds and smells. It’s our world; not one we created, but one we found—one that allowed us in. Then we task to share it with you . . . to decide which words fit the moment . . . which words tell the story just as we’re seeing it. Sometimes those words flow from us effortlessly, but sometimes we discover there is not enough words in the human dictionary to describe it. But we try anyway.

There are some worlds you will never read about. Worlds we keep private. Worlds that are so dark you’d lock us away if you knew we’d been there. Some day you may find bits and pieces of our visit hidden in the pages of dust-covered journals, buried deep where only the writer meant to find them, but you’ll never know the extent of the visit. Those shady words and fragmented sentences were never meant for your eyes. So put it away and stop wondering. Pick up instead a completed book, a poem, a short story . . . any work of prose, and be grateful to the author who stepped out of the vortex long enough to ensure the words could find their way to you. Be grateful for the stories they share; it’s sometimes difficult to set aside their greediness and let you in.