It was a very tall summer in 1957, and I’ll tell you why:
Houses were set afire for no good reason, and the smoke and the dust eclipsed any kindness that may have had a chance to grow. I do recall the anger that slid in the smoky heat, uncoiling like a snake, waiting to strike. I won’t lie: the snake in the Garden must have been a woman, because I understand it perfect. Thou shalt not poured through my head, but murder did not come at the end of that thought. Goddamn it, Jeremiah, thou shalt not have done unto me.
Not much physical writing the past couple of weeks due to a hectic work schedule. But I finally have a week off next week, and I’m looking forward to submerging myself back into the story… it’s there, but only in my head. As good an explanation as any as to why most writers are crazy. 🙂