When I was younger, I used to absolutely love notebooks. Old ones, new ones; anything that had a few fresh pages, and was blank and beautiful, and just for me.

I must have had at least five of those lying around at a time.

See, back then, writing was who I was. It was the simplest most natural kind of action to me. I never really thought about it, you know? All I had to do was build worlds in my mind; seamless maps of dragons and demons. Easy, perfect art.

Lately though, it all feels like work. I’m not telling stories, just crafting fancy words about a soulless page.

All I want though, is to get back there. Not to the fluent writer but to the witchy storyteller. 🙂 And this right here, is my GPS