It’s not that I have writer’s block, exactly. It’s more the opposite. I have so many ideas that they’re stuck in the door, and I can’t quite bring any of them to fruition. Working on one project means I’m not working on the others, after all. I can’t have that. So I lie awake with thoughts pooling in my eardrums, and I hope one of the five(?) stories I’m writing will eventually assume precedence.
Hell, I’m having enough trouble just writing this post. Have a bit of my latest while I go attempt to unstick my gears.
I told the wood that Momma’s getting bad. Last night there was weeping until the small hours. I couldn’t sleep. I came up by her bedside and I lay down my head like I used to do, but she just bawled that I bring her a switch. After that I really couldn’t sleep.
This morning I carried the water and I carried the wood, and on my way back from the forest, I told the trees my mind. I told them I didn’t sleep anymore. I told them Momma’s hand grips that switch like a seventh finger. After the telling I felt a little better. The leaves wagged at me. I like trees better with leaves. They don’t leer like winter’s skinny ones. I like friendly trees.
I told the trees my mind, and I think I left a piece of it with them. Like I dropped something behind me and they sucked it up into their roots. Like they pulled out little threads from my head and made a nest of them. I don’t mind. I like friendly trees.