I dream of other islands, on other nights. One in particular is a regular haunt, and it could not be more different from the first – a desolate, frigid, barren outcropping of rock in the midst of surging, wind-whipped black seas.
I found the actual desire to write this morning. Sort of stumbled across it, like a cat toy lost under the couch for a long time, coated in dust. Picked it up, turned it over in my hands, batted it around a little. And found that I had lost a couple hours. With actual words. On the page. Then I hit a little bit of a wall. And here I am. Stumbling. Struggling. Going down. Maybe I’ll do the dishes now. Maybe go back to bed. Dunno. Sure felt good for a while, making actual, real progress on one of the novels. Almost felt…like…. Stuff. Or something.
Yeah. Used up all my words for today. ‘bye now.