Monday, May 10, 2010

May 10, 2010

The calendar on the phone reads May 10. The temperature outside reads fifty-one. Confusion rules the realms, both external and internal. Should I write a lengthy passage in my current work, or revise what's already there? My toils of another time when I clearly saw the story. The present reveals nothing but angst and uncertainty. Where is this story going today? I need to stay connected to my characters, but today the spirit isn't moving me in that direction. Like the seasons, they aren't as they once were, my writing. The colorful scenes form, but the problem is in the performance, the execution. I should be able to spew a great yarn. The thermometer should read seventy-five. When will I ever get to put away my winter coat? The sky is clear, trees filled with lush green, yet my nose runs after returning from a small stint around the house. This is what the seasons have become. Unseasonable. This is what my writing has become. Unwritable. Somewhere in the continuum my muse resides, confused by its path, unable to

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