The Long and Winding Channel

I'm finding my lost words here.

Perhaps all I needed was a used bookstore to operate and fall in love with, an island to return to and claim as home instead of a vacation spot, a different set of worries to toss about during the day, conversations with hubby that start out, 'I think we should..." instead of "What are we going to..."

Sunshine nourishes us. And the salt from the marshes fills us up with its satisfying scent, so primal. Sleep arrives so gently. We're lulled into such sighs of contentment we're often mistaking one another for the wind.

Just Like Tom Thumb's Purples

I’m way past blues. My words have all escaped, slipped out the door and into the woods, climbed the trees and been carried away by the pine siskins to nests so high I haven’t a chance at getting them back again. They're cozy in those nests. I’ve lost the knack to coax them down to this cold, blank screen.

Brown-Eyed Word

I’m mixing more than metaphors these days, as this raddled brain of mine plays its little tricks on me. When I knit, I tell folks about the easy “recipe” I’ve been following. When the sun goes down, I ask hubby if I should turn on the lights on the camp deck that are shaped like ice cream cones, except I call them “pine cones”. I call pencils “crayons” and blankets are “sheets”, close, but no cigar. Tough to write much of anything when my words are mixed up like this.

Last Train to Wordsville

They’ve been clicking down the tracks lately, those errant words that sometimes escape into the woods when I’m walking the pooch before I find time to commit them to paper or computer screen. Some of them are even worthy of keeping around for awhile. Most of them even turn into complete sentences, with coherent meaning found at the end of a paragraph. So maybe I haven’t totally lost it yet. Maybe that special poem is still locked inside my head just waiting for the proper time to make itself known. Perhaps the short story that spilled from my fingertips the other day when I opened my laptop while lounging on the deck in the woods will turn into something that does not generate a rejection letter. It’s even possible one of the novels festering on the shelf will rear its head and demand a rewrite.

I’m riding the crazy writing train again, words flying in and out of my head, and I’m catching some that matter now and then. What more can we ask for?

Me and Bobby Magoo

I feel as if I've gone blind, can't find any of the words I need to express the way I'm feeling right now. Or perhaps I'm seeing things too clearly? Hmmm.

Maybe freedom's just another word for nothing left to say.

Waiting For the Sun

This Could Be The Last Line

How do we know what our last words might be? When will I put my pen to rest, unplug the keyboard and call it quits? There are still rejection letters due to arrive….or perhaps not. Still. When does it become a chore and not a need? And do I have a say in what my last words might be? If so I’d want them to simply be this: I gave it my best.