The Writer stands on the edge of the valley full of puddles. She takes it all in, all the words she's raced through, writing little worlds into existence. When was the last time she slowed down and just walked through the valley? Her lungs aren't quite empty, but she's tried. Her breaths are long and slow. Her legs are growing weary, not shaking, not going to collapse under her, but they could not keep going.

Her notebook has thousands of pages of handwritten stories. Now all typed up and shared with others. She'd been slowly slowing down; she still filled notebooks, but with letters, memories and details about bigger worlds she wants to create. The well had not run dry, but the flow had changed. The worlds called for more time than a quick puddle jump. Those puddles were deeper, and she desperately wanted to dive in and swim in those worlds.

She slowly sits at the edge of a puddle she'd visited many times. This world was the most fleshed out—more than any other. She'd nearly walked away from it because she thought she had to keep running from world to world. But when she let herself slow down, she found herself coming back to this puddle. Though the more she explored this puddle, the more like a pond, or maybe even a lake it became. It was also fun! And wasn't that the reason she started this in the first place?

She dips her feet in the cool, refreshing water and leans back, a laugh lingering on her breath. She could rest in the world for a while until she was ready to move on to the next. The only rush was the time limit she gave herself.