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. 🙂
Egad, summer is over and I am only have a third of the first draft saved in the Macbook. The Child Bride needed “help” redoing the guest bedroom and bath. Now I have firewood to stack and leaves to chop. Looks like the novel will be a winter project instead. Unless she wants to start on the family room…
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It’s amazing how much real life gets in the way of writing life. And yet onward we march….
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