The story I've been working on has stopped and started, like crosstown traffic on a Friday afternoon, one of those afternoons where the semi overturns in the middle of rush hour and only one lane is open. You're getting there, but slowly. A lane shift, and another paragraph is complete. One. It is a slow painful process, as I try to work out what flows and what doesn't, and I attempt to paint in words what a brush would never do in my hands. I briefly wondered what it'd sound like as an audiobook, with maybe Maggie Smith narrating it (yeah, it's one of those sort of books that can only be properly be read out loud with some sort of accent.) All with the horrible thought that in truth, I really don't know who I'm aiming the story at, or that anyone will even bother reading it, or worse, it will be read and disliked. Hopefully, this too shall pass.
|"Please? Just one photograph?"|
"Oh, all right. But just one...."
|Here. Have a shelf-fungus that looks like a sea shell.|
And so here I sit, alone at home on a Tuesday afternoon.
My life is a blank page, apparently... slowly loading on dial-up.
Pretty soon it's going to be time to refresh the page. When it does, you're going to see some changes.... if only I could find the right button to refresh.....