I have fallen out of the habit of writing on the blog.
I have excuses for not writing.
I am too busy to write, I am too happy to write. I have too much admin stuff demanding my time so that I am all worded out.
Monty demands a walk and so I compose silent stories as we head up the road. The rhythm of this country straightens the words that are swirling around inside my head, crowding and clouding my thinking, and as the shadows in the corner of my eyes morph into the old people, I nod sideways at them and whisper my promises to the trees they lean against.
I come inside and the phone rings and the words vanish.
Writing is an art.
Storytelling is an art.
Use it or lose it, I need to flex my writing muscles to see if I have any strength left in my words.
November might just be the month to do it. A blog post a day.
We shall see how that goes, internet, we shall see.
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“…the old people, I nod sideways at them and whisper my promises to the trees they lean against.” Nothing I say can do justice to these words, Kim.