Rise to the winged imago.......A butterfly of a story.

This evening I read over my last post ( unedited exerpt ) and immediatly noticed many errors , (opportunities) . You see, my dear reader when I begin a story, I just write , thats all  , just write .I  know the tale I want to tell and can visualize scenes , but the words  , the real words I want to use hide in the caves , up in the mountains and under the rocks in my mind , hiding there , making me come hunt for them, and I do . First though, I just write , jotting down what ever comes out of the pen. Then, I craw within myself , forming a coccon and night after night, I hunt for those little fuckers , "the troll words" and when I find them I eat them up like a hungry caterpillar. Then the  metamorphosis of the story can begin , it is a slow journey as I live in this word coccon .Free writing  , hunting , eating  , transforming  = egg , larva, pupa and finaly Imago  (last stage). But as I hunt and the story evolves , it remains a caterpillar, until and only until the words give rise to a winged imago. Oh , the beauty of a butterfly of a story.. flying away to the eyes of a reader.... Knight in the Forest of the Pons ( Journey to the Syndrome ) is just, but an egg
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