Then there are times when my typing fingers can't come up with anything. Turn on the writing faucet and there's but one half-drip of something rusty.
That's this week's faucet.
Yesterday, I thought I would go into the sunny world and find some inspiration. I had a nice day. A delicious lunch, people watching, a little shopping. I strolled contentedly in my flip-flops, then came home, read, picked up around the house, and relaxed with the dogs.
I had a good day. It doesn't need embellishment for interest's sake. It doesn't need to be more than it was so it can be written about.
Sometimes I wonder if the creation of art doesn't interfere with being in the moment. In the quest for "what can this reality be turned in to?" do we lose a little bit of the enjoyment of what we're actually doing?
