Jan and Feb are a blur; please, let March not be a blur. Let it be discrete hours within discrete days, each opening like the first magnolia blossoms on Fraternity Row at Ole Miss, those plate-sized white blossoms I stole for a grand occasion.
TODAY, I saw this little fellow in the roadside grass:
Within each day of this hallowed March, let me write something worth the time and trouble and insistence and frustration incurred in clearing the March calendar to make possible that writing.
THIS AFTERNOON SPENT WITH JOSIE MICHELLE WATKINS ON THE DECK:
I have everything here that I need: eyes, brain, hands, keyboard, IMAGINATION. I have characters walking around this house, talking to themselves. They are saying things about having been neglected far too long. I am afraid of mutiny, certain they consider abandoning me for some more faithful writer, one who got her books all written and published when she was younger, never letting anything get in the way.
[Photo of white blossoms by Robert Baxter of Suwannee Bend in north Florida]
2 comments:
You write beautifully.
Well, aren't you sweet, JBN. Thanks for speaking; for some reason, most readers find it complicated to comment. You made my day!
scauthen
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