My last writing project was to write short devotionals. Small, brief, annoyingly miniscule–120 words per, to be exact. My current writing project is just a little longer–150 words. Not much better, but still, 30 words more to allow for better descriptions and insight.
When I write, I am not a woman of few words. Last fall I wrote a letter which took 6,290 words to get my point across, so to be shackled with a limit of 120 or 150 words is giving me fits.
Writing is a joyful experience for me. I run free through the farthest reaches of my being, gathering words like wildflowers and arranging them into bouquets in a multitude of vessels, filling screen pages to overflowing.
I write until there are no more words to be picked or arranged. The pages are decorated; the fragrance intoxicating. I begin the process anew when the scent begins to fade.
Having a limit of 120 words makes me feel as if I am chained by the ankle to a sapling. I’m forced to use a two-inch pencil to write on a 3×5 card. I feel as though I’m skipping stones in a bathtub or trying to teach a bowling ball to fly.
At the word fly, I was already at 207 words. Do you understand my frustration? Do you feel my pain?
I shouldn’t complain at all, though, because I am being paid to do what I love. How many people in the world can say that?