I know I have to write when I feel the flicker of an idea.
In the past year the flickers have rained across my almost-consciousness like a meteor shower. And I have not taken the time to write. I find that this career switch into real estate leaves me plumb brain pooped.
Poopy-tired. (E.S., if you read this ever, you'll recognize that phrase. Yes you will.)
If I plumb (from the vernacular to the proper use of that word), the purse seine net of those flickers, some flashes include:
How the East End is the new Boulder.
So - Is this a hot flash?
Episodes from the office - This never happened in book publishing.
Us versus them - That didn't take long.
How the local folk are like Jane Austen characters, 200 years after.
Wimbledon, the Tour de France, the Beijing Olympics, the US Open. Because I like to watch. A lot.
Surfer Girl (and others) defeat The Circle of Misery.
The new weekend.
The unborn baby bird crush.
Let's see if I can get some of these out of my head and onto this screen. Good grief, we've past Labor Day already.
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