It happened. Reality bumped in. Between job, kids, husband, bills, daylight savings, I didn't write yesterday, Day 10. The literary-abandon month dropped like a spent bottlerocket.
I moped some last night. I wanted to write, but the other voices in my life (not including my dog) said give it a break. I expected this to happen, but I'm not quitting. Re-saddling, today, very soon.
My month at the keyboard has been outstanding. I've written 42 pages and almost 10K words. Did I? I can hardly believe it. Better yet, I like most of it. Here's a short section that made me happy:
In the short windows of solitude, she daydreamed. The visions involved flight. Flight made possible with wings. She stood in a summer field, her body covered by loose, opaque gauze, the sky a blanket of invitation, and from a whirlwind, enormous wings unfolded from her shoulder blades. At times, the wings were brown and barred, on other occasions, red and speckled with yellow. Most often, the wings, spanning beyond her fingertips, were white.
In quick, repeated bursts, the intensity flattening the grasses, she lifted into the air between treetops and clouds. She soared steady, buoyed by the winds without fear of predators. From above, the world displayed its order and chaos. Fields and roads bordered by trees etched comforting patterns while thick forests and jutting coastline reminded her nature meant unpredictability. The contradiction of the view, of the order and disorder, lingered within her after the vision died, when she flew into the sun and burned to ash.