After sifting through my notes and thoughts, nothing seems blog-worthy. Some of you might call it writer's block. I prefer to call it orbiting writer's planet. I used to live on writer's planet. It was a place full of words and wonderful ideas, sheer excitement for great couplets of plot tied to poetic phrases. Except, I was jettisoned and find myself floating around the planet like a lost moon. The woman on the face of the moon has a pale face and wanting eyes and no arms for reaching. The moon can be a good place to observe the planet where the words flowed, because it demands of the moon lady some perspective. Was the planet beautiful, as beautiful as it seemed when she was living on it? If it was, how does she get back? She lives in a foreign atmosphere and waits for the air to become familiar.
dances on vowels,
After sifting through my notes and thoughts, nothing seems blog-worthy. Some of you might call it writer's block. I prefer to call it orbiting writer's planet. I used to live on writer's planet. It was a place full of words and wonderful ideas, sheer excitement for great couplets of plot tied to poetic phrases. Except, I was jettisoned and find myself floating around the planet like a lost moon. The woman on the face of the moon has a pale face and wanting eyes and no arms for reaching. The moon can be a good place to observe the planet where the words flowed, because it demands of the moon lady some perspective. Was the planet beautiful, as beautiful as it seemed when she was living on it? If it was, how does she get back? She lives in a foreign atmosphere and waits for the air to become familiar.
