Roses take me back.
The smell of roses reminds me of Detroit in the 70s. Plucking roses off bushes and being stuck by a thorn, the metallic taste of red blood, matched again the red roses that are still my favorite flower. You would think that something that causes pain would not have the sweetest scent to calm frayed nerves. But they do. It’s the same with writing. It’s sometimes painful to think through scenes that disturb the imagination yet writing it less than authentically disturbs the soul. The prick of a sharp thorn juxtaposed against an action verb that opens the skin swift and precise.
As the rose dies like the page numbers grow, a lightness surrounds the inevitable. The moment when all that’s left is a bud signalling the end.
May your writing be blessed with sweet and sharp edges.