Am I any closer to finishing the book I'm working on? I honestly don't know. I make notes, think, make more notes. Sometimes it's right there, so very near, like the elusive solution to an equation that just won't balance. Yet.
I tell myself that the only reason I'm not sitting down and writing this thing is because I'm not ready. It's not ready. But I am writing it. Just not all at once.
This evening finds me strolling down the middle of our street. I smell like citrus and I've a bag of lemons, tangerines and grapefruit from my neighbor two doors down. The sky is the blue of an Arabian Nights tale, complete with a huge round moon. I'm a little tipsy. Nothing fun--just cold meds doing nothing for my symptoms except making me foggy enough not to care so much that my nose is running. Surprisingly, I can still distinguish grapefruit from lemon.
It was eighty two degrees today. Eighty two. And, if I wasn't sneezing enough already, this pavement is dusted with green shoots and pollen. This morning felt like April.
And, just as I close the door behind me, the cold closes in on me. I feel as though I've been hit in the face. So, no more writing. Who has time for colds? No one, but sickness does not discriminate, nor does it wait. Dammit.