Nighttime breathes cold air through the open front door--I need atmosphere. I feel like I'm suffocating. Fortunately it's not snowing or I'd be in real trouble. There's a faint chink of wind chimes filtering in.
I've been pouring over a certain scene in this story, about a young man after he loses his cousin and best friend. Wracking my brains, really. Scraping my heart out onto paper and spreading it around in different instances of emotion. I sit by the door. On the carpet. On the couch. Pace around. Something stirs, deep down, the story I'm trying to tell. I write furiously before it's gone again, a few sentences. Fragments. Thoughts.
This scene is taking forever.
It makes me miss long conversations with good friends. Barbecues. Being nine again. Nine was a good age. I didn't worry about much. Didn't have to pay attention if I didn't want to. Read a lot of books. If I lived on the beach, I'd be surfing right now. Lying in the sand. Watching seagulls. Kicking sand at ducks.
Too bad I'm not writing a story about an absent-minded nine year old or I'd be done by now.
Tuesday, March 31
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