When do I write?
I write all the time; if not on paper or computer, then in my mind. Words are my oxygen – as natural as breathing, they flow in . . . and out . . . pulsing veins, jumping synapses, interrupting, sorting and shuffling, keeping me alive.
Before blogging I wrote when the churning clamored, sporadically at times, others with consistent fervor; gray matter refused to stop whirling until I poured words out to quiet thoughts down. Rambling agitations trumped productive activity unless I scribbled onto paper. Despite ongoing inner dialogue, I put little real content out; over those years I ruminated possibility’s pot, stirred plot’s patience, and simmered its garrulous stew. I had no idea when I’d be ready to ladle and savor.
In younger years I naïvely anticipated a middle-aged future with long stretches of quiet calm spells. Well . . . later is here and quiet calm is rudely absent. I’m tired of cooking. It’s time instead to put distraction on the back burner and toss aside life’s apron of barreling interruption.
The fixings have simmered long enough. Fetch a bowl, soup’s up.
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